The Emily Emmins 
Papons 





fiv Carolyn Wollv5 




Class _JDA^A^ 

Book Ml.l_5 

CopightN" 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



The 
Emily Emmins Papers 

By 

Carolyn Wells 



With Illustrations by 

Josephine A. Meyer 



G. P. Putnam's Sons 
New York and London 
^be IknicKerbocfter ipreas 

1907 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
One Uuu> Meceived 

NUV 22 i^ 



COPY t. 



iiiry 






Copyright, 1907 

BY 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 



Ube fmlcfterbocfter press, "Rew IPorft 



s. 
-> 



TO 

EDITH MEND ALL-TAYLOR 

IN MEM ORY OF 
PICCADILLY 




I. A Ticket to Europe . . i 

II. Crossing the Atlantic . 23 

III. "In England — Now!" . . 45 

IV. Mayfair in the Fair Month 

OF May .... 67 

V. A Hostess at Home . . 86 

VI. The Light on Burns's Brow . 106 

VII. Certain Social Uncertain- 
ties .... 126 



Contents 



HAPTER PAGE 

VIII. A vSentimental Journey . 146 

IX. All in a Garden Fair . . 167 

X. "I Went and Ranged about 

TO Many Churches" . . i36 

XL Piccadilly Circus and its 

Environs . . . 208 

XII. The Game of Going on . 230 

XIII. A French Week-End . . 252 



The Emily Emmins Papers 



The LmlyEmmins Paplf^s 




A Ticket 

to 
Zurope 




It has always seemed to me a pity 
that nearly all of the people one meets 
walking in New York are going some- 
where. I mean they have some defi- 
nite destination. Thus they lose the 
rare delight, that all too little known 
pleasure, of a desultory stroll through 
the city streets. For myself, I know 



2 Ube lEmll^ Bmmins papers 

of no greater joy than an aimless 
ramble along the crowded metropol- 
itan thoroughfares. Nor does ramble 
imply, as some might mistakenly sup- 
pose, a slow, dawdling gait. Not at 
all; the atmosphere of the city itself 
inspires a brisk, steady jog-trot; but 
the impression of a ramble is inevitable 
if the jog-trot have no intended goal. 
I am a country woman, — ^that is, 
I live in a suburban town ; but it is 
quite near enough to the metropolis 
for us to consider ourselves near- 
New Yorkers. And Myrtlemead is a 
dear little worth-while place in its 
own way. We have a Current Cul- 
ture Club and a Carnegie library 
and several of us have telephones. 
I am not a member of the Club, but 
that must not be considered as any 
disparagement of my culture — or, 



H Utcftet to ^Europe 



rather, of my capacity for assimilating 
culture (for the Club's aim is the dis- 
bursement of that desirable commod- 





Oh! yes, you have temperament, she twittered. 



ity). On the contrary, I was among 
the first invited to belong to it. 

''You must be a member, Miss 
Emmins," said the vivacious young 



4 Ube Bmll^ Bmmtns papers 

thing who called to lay the matter 
before me, ** because you have so 
much temperament.'* 

This word was little used in Myrtle- 
mead at this time (although, since, 
it has become as plenty as black- 
berries), and I simply said ''What!" 
in amazement. 

"Oh! yes, you have," she twittered, 
" and you create an atmosphere. Don't 
attempt to deny it, — ^you know you do 
create an atmosphere." This was too 
much. I did n't join the Club, al- 
though I occasionally look in on them 
at their cultured tea hour, which follows 
the more intellectual part of their 
programme. As they have delicious 
chicken-salad and hot rolls and coffee, 
I find their culture rather comforting 
than otherwise. 

Living so near New York, I find 



H Uic\ict to ^Europe 



it convenient to run into the city 
whenever I hear it caUing. 

In the spring its calls are especially 




Lilacs blossom along the curb 

urgent. I know popular sympathy 
leans toward springtime in the country, 
but for my part, as soon as March 
has blown itself away, and April 



6 Z\)C lEmllp )Emmins papers 

comes whirling along the cleared path 
of the year, I hurry to keep my annual 
appointment to meet Spring in New 
York. The trees are budding in the 
parks, daffodils and tulips are blooming 
riotously on the street-corners, while 
hyacinths and lilac? blossom along the 
curb. A pearl-colored cloud is poised 
in that intense blue just above the 
Flatiron Building, and the pretty city 
girls smile as they prank along in their 
smart spring costumes behind their 
violet mows. The birds twitter with 
a sophisticated chirp, and the street- 
pianos respond with a brisk sharpness 
of tune and time. The very air is 
full of an urban ozone, that is quite 
different from the romantic lassitude 
of spring in the country. 

Of course, all this is a matter of 
individual taste. I prefer walking in 



H xrtcF^et to Burope 



dainty boots, along a clean city pave- 
ment, while another equally sound 




Common-sense shoes and a rough country road. 

mind might vote for common-sense 
shoes and a rough country road. 

And so, as I, Emily Emmins, spin- 



8 Zbc lEmilp lEmmlns papers 

ster, have the full courage of my own 
convictions, I found myself one crisp 
April morning walking happily along 
the lower portion of Broadway. Im- 
pulse urged me on toward the Battery, 
but, as often happens, my impulse 
was side-tracked. And all because of 
a woman's smiling face. I was passing 
the offices of the various steamship 
companies, and I saw, coming down 
the steps of one of them, a young wo- 
man whose countenance was positively 
glorified with joy. I could n't resist a 
second glance at her, and I saw that 
both her hands were filled with circu- 
lars and booklets. 

It required no clairvoyance to un- 
derstand the situation; she had just 
bought her first ticket to Europe, and 
it was the glorious achievement of a 
lifelong desire. I knew, as well as 



H Ulcftet to }£urope 



if she had told me, how she had planned 
and economized for it, and probably 
studied all sorts of text-books that 
she might properly enjoy her trip, and 
make it an education as well as a pleas- 
ure. And as I looked at the gay- 
colored pamphlets she clutched, I was 
moved to go in and acquire a few for 
myself. 

With Emily Emmins, to incline is 
to proceed; so I stepped blithely into 
the big light office and requested 
booklets. They were bestowed on me 
in large numbers, the affable clerk 
was most polite, and,— well, I'm sure 
I don't know how it happened, but 
the first thing I knew I was paying 
a deposit on my return ticket to 
Liverpool. 

I may as well confess, at the outset, 
that I am of a chameleonic nature. I 



10 XTbe lEmilp Bmmtna papers 

not only take color from my sur- 
roundings, but reflect manners and 
customs as accurately and easily as a 
mirror. And so, in that great, busi- 
ness-like office, with its maps and 
charts and time-tables and steamer 
plans, the only possible thing to do 
seemed to be to buy my ticket, and I 
did so. But I freely admit it was 
entirely the influence of the ocean- 
going surroundings that made the 
deed seem to me a casual and natural 
one. No sooner had I regained the 
street, with its spring air and stone 
pavement, than I realized I had done 
something unusual and perhaps ill- 
advised. However, a chameleonic na- 
ture implies an ability to accept a 
situation, and after one jostled mo- 
ment I walked uptown, planning as I 
went. 



H Uicl^et to ^Europe n 



Two days later the postman brought 
me an unusually large budget of mail. 
The first letter I opened caused me 
some surprise, and a mild amusement. 
It began, quite cosily: 
Miss Emily Emmins. 

Dear Madam: Learning that you intend 
sailing from New York in the near future, I 
take the liberty of calling your attention 
to the Hotel Xantippe as a most desirable 
stopping place during your stay in this city. 

The letter went on to detail the 
advantages and charms of the hotel, 
and gave a complete list of rates, 
which, for the comforts and luxuries 
promised, seemed reasonable indeed! 
But how in the world did the urbane 
proprietor of the Hotel Xantippe know 
that I contemplated a trip abroad? 
I hadn't yet divulged my secret to 
my fellow-residents of Myrtlemead, 
and how an utter stranger could learn 



12 XTbe jSmil^ JBmmine papers 

of it, was a puzzle to me. But the 
other letters were equally amazing. 
One from a dry-goods emporium be- 
sought me to inspect their wares before 
going abroad to buy. Another begged 
me to purchase their shoes, and gave 
fearful warnings of the shortcomings 
of English footgear. Another, and 
perhaps the most flattering, requested 
the honor of taking my photograph 
before I sailed. But one and all 
seemed not only cognizant of my 
recently formed plan:"., but entirely 
approved of them, and earnestly de- 
sired to assist me in carrying them 
out. 

With my willingness to accept a 
situation, I at once assumed that 
somehow the news of my intended 
departure had crept into one or other 
of the New York daily papers. I 



H UtcF^et to Europe 13 

could n't understand why this should 
be, but surely the only possible ex- 
planation was my own prominence 
in the public eye. This, I placidly 
admitted to myself, was surprising, 
but gratifying. To be sure, I had 
written a few nondescript verses, and 
an occasional paper on some foolish 
thing as a fine art, but I had not 
reached the point where my name 
was mentioned among ''What Our 
Authors are Saying and Doing." 

However — alas for my vainglory! 
— a neighbor soon explained to me, 
that all up-to-date business firms pro- 
cure lists of those who have bought 
steamship tickets, and send circular 
letters to each address. This was 
indeed a blow to my vanity, but so 
interesting were the letters which con- 
tinued to pour in that I cared little 



14 TLbc iBmilv JBmmim ipapers 

for the reason of their sending. They 
pleased me mightily, because of their 
patronizing attitude, treating me as 
if I were either Josiah Allen's wife or 
a Choctaw Indian. Invariably they 
assumed I had never been in the me- 
tropolis before, and would prove ex- 
ceeding ignorant of its ways. Nor 
were they entirely mistaken. 

One elaborate circular set forth the 
wonders of the city as viewed from 
the ''Seeing [or Touring] New York 
Motor-Coach.'* Now I had passed 
these great arks hundreds of times, but 
it had never occurred to me to enter 
one. And yet, so great is my sus- 
ceptibility to suggestion, that I de- 
termined to take the trip before leav- 
ing my native land. 

Another letter left me hesitating 
as to whether my proposed journey 



H Utcftet to Europe 15 

was advisable after all. This letter 
was from the Elsinore Travel Bureau, 
and explained how, by the purchase 
of a new-fangled stereoscope and in- 
numerable sets of ''views," one could 
get far more satisfaction out of a 
European trip by staying at home 
than by going abroad. "So real are 
the scenes," the circular assured me, 
**that one involuntarily stretches out 
a hand to grasp what isn't there." 
Surely, realism need go no farther than 
that; yet some over-exacting people 
might demand that the grasped-for 
thing should be there. 

At least, that 's the way I felt about 
it; and besides, now that all Myrtle- 
mead was stirred up over my going to 
Europe, I couldn't decently abandon 
my project. That's one of the de- 
lightful annoyances of life in a country 



1 6 ube Bmilp Bmmins papers 

village. Everybody belongs to every- 
body else, and your neighbors have 
a perfect right to be as interferingly 
helpful as they choose. My house 
was besieged by what I came to call 
the noble army of starters, for the 
kind-hearted ones . brought me every 
imaginable help or hindrance to an 
ocean voyage. 

I had already bought myself a 
steamer rug, whose soft bright colors 
and silky texture delighted my soul; 
but none the less were steamer rugs 
brought me by dozens, as intended 
loans. It w^as with a slight air of 
resentment that my would-be bene- 
factors received my humble apology 
for possessing a rug of my own, and 
walked away with their plaids in their 
arms and their heads in the air. Then 
came one who earnestly advised me 



H Uicfict to }Europe 



17 



not to take my lovely, silky rug, as it 
was sure to be ruined on the steamer, 
and after that to be devoured bv 




They walked away with their plaids in their arms 
and their heads in the air 

moths during its summer in a steamer 
trunk. The best plan, she informed 
me, was to hire a rug from the steam- 
ship company, as I would hire my 
deck-chair, and leave my own rug at 
home, to be used as a couch robe. 
Being amiable by nature I agreed to 



1 8 Zbc lEmil^ lEmmms papers 

this plan. Next came a neighbor 
who, having heard that I had con- 
cluded to hire a rug on the steamer, 
asked to borrow mine to take with 
her on a lake trip. Of course I lent 
it to her, but a few weeks later, when 
I tried to cuddle into one of the small 
harsh rugs that the steamship com- 
pany provides, I almost regretted my 
amiability. 

Then came friends with cushions — 
large, small, and double- jointed. Also, 
they brought air-pillows, and water- 
pillows, and patent contrivances for 
comfort, that were numerous and 
bulky, and adequately expressed their 
donors* kind interest in my well- 
being at sea. Also came many sure 
and absolute remedies for sea-sickness, 
or preventives thereof. Had I taken 
them all with me, and had they made 



H XTicftet to ^Europe 19 

good their promise, not one of the 
cabin passengers, or the steerage, need 
have been ill for a moment. Inter- 
spersed among the more material gifts 
was much and various advice. 

This was easily remembered, for 
taken as a whole it included every 
possible way of doing anything. Said 
one: ''Pack your trunks very tightly, 
for clothing carries much better that 
way." Said another: ''Pack your 
trunks very loosely; for then you will 
have room to bring home many pur- 
chases and yet declare at customs only 
the same number of trunks as you 
took with you from America." Said 
a third: "Let me help you pack, for if 
a trunk is crammed too tightly or 
filled too loosely, it makes all sorts 
of trouble. " 

But, being amiable, I smiled pleas- 



20 XTbe Bmtl^ Bmmins papers 

antly on all, agreed with each adviser, 
and held my peace. For, to me, pre- 
liminaries mattered little, and I knew 
that as soon as I was fairly at sea, 
or at least beyond the three-mile 
limit, I could make my own plans, 
and carry them out without let or 
hindrance. 

My itinerary was, of course, ar- 
ranged and rearranged for me, but 
usually the would-be arbiters of my 
destinations fell into such hot dis- 
cussions among themselves that they 
quite forgot I was going away at all. 
But it mattered little to me whether 
they advised the Riviera by way of 
the North Cape, or the Italian lakes 
after the Cathedral tour; for my entire 
summer was irrevocably planned in 
my own mind. No "touristing" for 
me. No darting through Europe with 



H Ulcftet to ^Europe 



21 



a shirtwaist in a "suit" case, and a 
Baedeker in my other hand. 

No, my ''tour of extended foreign 




No " touristing" for me. 

travel," as our local newspaper per- 
sisted in calling it, was, on my part, an 
immutable resolve to go by the most 
direct route to London and remain 



22 XTbe iBmil^ jBmmine papers 

there until the date of my return 
ticket to New York. This plan, being 
simple in the main, left me leisure 
to listen to my friends' advices and 
recommendations. But, though I lis- 
tened politely, I really paid little heed, 
and at last I sailed away with the ad- 
vice, in a confused medley drifting 
out of my memory. 

The only points that seemed to be 
impressed on my mind were that, in 
London parlance, ''Thank you" in- 
variably means either "Yes" or *'No" 
(nobody seemed quite sure which), 
and that in England one must always 
call a telephone a lift. 




The most remarkable effect of a 

sea-trip is, to my mind, its wonderful 

influence for amiability. I had n't 

passed Sandy Hook before I felt an 

affable suavity settling down upon me 

like a February fog. I am at all times 

of a contented and peaceful nature, 

but this lethargic urbanity was a new 

sensation, and, as I opined it was but 
23 



24 XTbe Bmilp Bmmins papers 

the beginning of a series of new sen- 
sations, I gave myself up to it with a 
satisfied feehng that my trip had 
really begun. 

And yet I was haunted by a vague 
uneasiness that it had n't begun right. 
I had planned to be most methodical 
on this voyage. I had resolved that 
when I came aboard I would go first 
to my stateroom and unpack my 
steamer trunk, arrange my belongings 
neatly in their proper portholes and 
bunkers, find my reserved deck-chair, 
and attach to it my carefully tagged 
rug and pillow. Then I meant to 
take off and pack away my pretty 
travelling costume, and array myself 
in my ''steamer clothes, " these having 
been selected with much care and 
thought in accordance with numerous 
and conflicting advices. 



Crossing tbe Htlantlc 25 

Whereas, instead of all this, I had 
hurriedly looked into my stateroom, 
and only noted that it was a tiny white 
box, piled high with luggage, part of 
which I recognized as my own, and 
the rest I assumed belonged to my 
as yet unknown room-mate. Then 
I had drifted out on deck, dropped into 
some chair, I know not whose; and, 
still in my trig tailor-made costume 
and feathered hat, I watched the 
coast line fade away and leave the 
sea and sky alone together. 

Suddenly it occurred to me that 
I was receiving ''first impressions/' 
How I hated the term! Every one I 
knew, who had ever crossed the ocean 
before I did, had said to me, **And 
you Ve never been over before ? Oh, 
how I envy you your first impressions!'* 
As I realized that about seventy- 



26 XTbe lEmil^ iBmmins papers 

nine people were even then consumed 
with a burning envy of these first 
impressions of mine, I somehow felt 
it incumbent upon me to justify their 
attitude by achieving the most in- 
tensely enviable impressions extant. 
And yet, so prosaic are my mental 
processes, or else so contrary-minded 
is my subconscious self, that the 
impression that obtruded itself to the 
exclusion of all others was the some- 
what obvious one that the sea air 
would soon spoil my feathers. While 
making up my mind to go at once 
to my stateroom and save my lovely 
plumes from their impending fate, I 
fell to wondering what my room-mate 
would be like. I knew nothing of 
her save that her name was Jane 
Sterling. This, though, was surely 
an indication of her personality, for 



Crossing tbe Htlanttc 27 

notwithstanding the usual inappropri- 
ateness of cognomens, any one named 
Jane Sterling could not be other- 
wise than well born, well bred, and 
companionable, though a bit eld- 
erly. 

I seemed to see Jane Sterling with 
a gaunt face, hooked nose, and grizzled 
hair, though I admitted to myself 
that she might be a fragile, porcelain- 
like little old maid. 

This conflict of possibilities im- 
pelled me to go to my stateroom and 
make Jane Sterling's acquaintance, 
and, incidentally, put away my best 
hat. 

So I started, and on my way 
received another of my ''first im- 
pressions.*' 

This was a remarkable feeling of 
at-homeness on the steamer. I had 



28 Ube lEmllp lEmmlns ipapers 

never been on an ocean liner before, 
yet I felt as though I had lived on one 
for years. The balancing of myself 
on the swaying stairs seemed to come 
naturally to me, and I felt that I 
should have missed the peculiar at- 




mosphere of the dining-saloon had 
it not assailed my senses. 

As I entered Stateroom D, I found 
Jane Sterling already there. But as 
the physical reality was so different 
from the lady of my imagination, I 



Crossing tbe Htlantlc 21, 

sat down on the edge of my white- 
spread berth and stared at her. 

Sitting on the edge of the opposite 
berth, and staring back at me, was a 
small child with big eyes. She wore a 
stiff little frock of white pique, and 
her brown hair was ''bobbed" and 
tied up with an enormous white bow. 
Her brown eyes had a solemn gaze, 
and her little hands were clasped 
in her lap. 

It was quite needless to ask her 
name, for Jane Sterling was plainly 
and unmistakably written all over 
her, and I marvelled that the name 
hadn't told me at once what she 
looked like. 

*'How old are you, Jane?" I asked. 

"Seven," she replied, with a little 
sigh, as of the weight of years. 

Her voice satisfied me. She was 



so XTbe iBmil^ iBmmins papers 

one of those unusual children, whom 
some speak of as ''queer," and others 
call ' ' old-fashioned. ' ' 

But they are neither. They are 
distinctly a modem variety, and their 
unusualness lies in the fact that they 
have a sense of humor. 

"And is this your first trip abroad?" 
I went on. 

"No, my seventh," said Jane, with 
a delicious little matter-of-fact air. 

** Indeed! Well, this is the first 
time I have crossed, so I trust you 
will take pity on my ignorance, and 
instruct me as to what I should 
do." 

1 said this with an intent to be 
sociable, and make, the child feel at 
ease, but no such effort was necessary. 

"There is nothing to do diffelunt," 
she said, with a bewitching smile. 



Crossing tbe Htlantic 3 1 

*'You just do what you would in your 
own house." 

It was the first really good advice 
I had had concerning my steamer 
manners, and I put it away among 
my other first impressions for future 
use. 

Then Jane's mother appeared, and 
I learned that she occupied the next 
stateroom, and that she hoped Jane 
would not annoy me, and that she 
was glad I liked children, and that 
she had three, and that they crossed 
every year, and that if I wanted any- 
thing at all I was to ask her for it. 
Then she put a few polite questions to 
me, and duly envied me my first im- 
pressions, and returned to her other 
babies. 

Jane proved a most delightful room- 
mate, and, as she was never intru- 



32 Ube iBmil^ Bmmlns ipapers 

sive or troublesome, I felt that I had 
drawn a prize in the ship's lottery. 

The morning of the second day I 
rose with a determination to get to 
work. I had no intention of dawd- 
ling, and, moreover, I had much to do. 
In the first place, I wanted to get 
settled in my deck-chair, in that 
regulation bent-mummy position so 
often pictured in summer novels, and 
study my fellow-passengers. I had 
been told that nothing was so much 
fun as to study people on deck. Then 
I had many letters to write and many 
books to read. I wanted to learn 
how to compute the ship's log, and 
how to talk casually of ''knots." 
After all these had been accomplished, 
I intended to plan out my itinerary 
for the summer. This I wanted to do 
after I was out of all danger of advice 



Crossing tF)e Htlantic 33 

from friends at home and before I 
made the acquaintance of any one on 
board who might attempt to advise 
me. 

So determined was I to plan my 
own trip that I would have been 
glad to get out on a desert island and 
wait there for the next steamer, rather 
than have any assistance in the matter 
of laying out my route. 

Immediately after breakfast, there- 
fore, arrayed in correct steamer cos- 
tume, and carrying rug, pillow, pa- 
per-covered novel, veil, fur boa, and 
two magazines, I went to my deck- 
chair and prepared to camp out for 
the morning. As the deck steward 
was not about, I tried to arrange my 
much desired mummy effect myself. 
Technique seemed lacking in my ef- 
forts, and, slightly embarrassed at my 



34 TLbc }£mtli^ jEmmtns papers 

inability to manage the refractory 
rug, I looked up to see Jane watching 
me. 

''You mustn't put the rug over 
you," she explained, in her kind little 
way. **You must put yourself over 
the rug." 

At her advice I got out of the chair, 
and she spread the rug smoothly in 
it. 

**Sit down," she said, briefly, and I 
obeyed. 

Cleverly, then, she flung up the 
sides and tucked in the corners, until 
the rug swathed me in true seven- 
teenth-trip fashion. Jane proceeded 
to arrange my pillow and the other 
odds and ends of comfort. She dis- 
approved, however, of my reading- 
matter. 

''Magazines won't stay open," she 



CrossluG tbe Htlantic 35 

observed, **and paper books won't, 
eever." 

Jane's few mispronunciations were 
among her chiefest charms. 

**But it won't matter," she added 
cheerfully. ''You won't read, any- 
how." 

This reminded me that I had no 
intention of reading, being there for 
the purpose of studying my fellow- 
passengers. 

I was still obsessed by that strange 
sensation of inanition. 

Although beatifically serene and 
abnormally good-natured, I felt an 
utter aversion to exertion of any kind, 
mental, moral, or physical. Even the 
thought of studying my fellow-trav- 
ellers seemed a task too arduous to 
contemplate. 

And so I sat there all the morning 



36 Ubc lEmtl^ Bmmtns papers 

and not a fellow-traveller was studied. 

''This won't do," I said to myself, 
severely, after luncheon. ''Here you 
are, not a hint of sea-sickness, the day 
is perfect, you know how to adjust 
your rug, and all conditions are fa- 
vorable. You must study your fel- 
low-travellers." 

But the afternoon showed little 
improvement on the morning. As a 
result of desperate effort, I scrutinized 
one lady and decided to call her the 
Lady with the Green Bag. 

It was n't a very clever characteri- 
zation, but it was, at least, founded 
on fact. 

Another I conscientiously contem- 
plated, and finally dubbed her the 
Lady Who Is n't an Actress. This 
was rather a negative description, 
but I based it on the neatness of her 



Crossing tbe Htlanttc 



37 



vanity-bag and the carelessness of 
her belt, and I am sure it was true. 

The Clucking Mother was easily 
recognized, and a pink-cheeked and 
white-handed young man, 
who attempted to talk to 
me, I snubbed, and then 
to myself I designated 
him as Simple Simon. 

I wasn't really rude 
to him, and I fully in- 
tended to make acquaint- 
ances among the passen- 
gers later on; but I am 
methodical, and after I 
had all my other tasks 
attended to, I hoped to 
have two or three days 
left for social intercourse. 

But after a time the 
chair next mine was left vacant, and 




Simple Simon. 



38 Ube lEmtl^ lEmmins papers 

then a laughing young girl seated 
herself in it. 

Apparently it did n't belong to her, 
and she sat down there with the ex- 
press purpose of talking to me. My 
arduous study of my fellow-travellers 
had somewhat wearied me, and her 
sudden and uninvited appearance dis- 
turbed that serene calm which I had 
supposed unassailable, and so I angrily 
characterized her in my mind as a 
Bold-Faced Jig. 

This name was so apt that it really 
pleased me, and I involuntarily smiled 
in appreciation of my appreciation of 
her. 

So sympathetic was she (as I af- 
terward discovered) that she smiled 
too, and then I couldn't, in common 
decency, be rude to her. She chatted 
away, and before I knew it I was 



Crossing tbe Htlantic 39 



charmed with her. I didn't change 
the name I had mentally bestowed 
on her, but, instead, I told her of it, 
and it delighted her beyond measure. 
I told her, too, how I intended to 
devote the next two days to planning 
my summer trip, then a day for 
writing letters, and after that I hoped 
to play bridge, or otherwise hobnob 
socially with certain people whom 
I had mentally selected for that 
purpose. 

The Bold-Faced Jig laughed heart- 
ily at this. 

** Haven't you any idea where you 're 
going to travel?" she askec'. 

**Not the slightest. " 

**Well, let me advise you " 

**0h, please don't!" I cried. "I 
left my planning until now in order 
to get away from all advisers. I 



40 Zlbe ]Em!I^ Bmmtns papers 

7fiust decide for myself. I know just 
what I want, and I can't bear to be 
interfered with." 

The B.-F. J. looked amazed at first, 
and then she laughed. 

' ' All right, ' ' she said. ' ' Now listen. 
Miss Emmins. I think you 're de- 
lightful, and I 'm going to help you 
all I can by not advising you. But 
if you 've not finished your itinerary 
plans in two days, may n't I tell you 
then what I was going to advise?" 

''Yes," I said, with dignity and 
decision, ''if you will keep away from 
me for two days, and do all you can 
to keep others away." 

She promised, and it was more of a 
task than it might seem, for as I sat 
in my deck-chair, or, oftener, at a 
table in the library, surrounded by 
Baedekers, time-tables, maps, guide- 



Crossing tbe Ht antic 41 

books, and Hare's Walks in London y 
many of the socially inclined or cu- 
rious-minded paused to make a ten- 
tative remark. My replies were so 
coolly polite that they rarely ventured 
on a second observation, but I soon 
discovered that my laughing friend 
had told her comrades what I was 
doing, and they awaited the result. 

It is strange what trivialities will 
interest the idle minds of those who 
dawdle about in the library of an 
ocean steamer. 

Jane would occasionally come and 
stand by me, saying wisely, "Are you 
still making your itinnery?" 

When I said yes, she sighed and 
smiled and ran away, being desirous 
not to bother. 

The first morning I engaged in this 
work, I read interestedly of picture- 



42 Ube iSmil^ Bmmlns papers 

galleries and architectural specialties. 
That afternoon my interest waned, 
and I studied time-tables and statis- 
tical information. The next morning 
I grew sick of the whole performance 
and, bundling the books and maps 
away, I went out to my deck-chair, 
and idled away the hours in waking 
dreams that never were on sea or land. 

That afternoon the Bold-Faced Jig 
approached me. 

"It's all over,'' I said. "I've ca- 
pitulated. I make no plans while I 'm 
on this blessed ocean. It 's wicked to do 
anything at all but to do nothing. " 

"And don't you want my advice?" 
she asked, laughing still. 

" I don't care, " I answered. "You 
can voice your advice if you choose. 
I sha' n't listen to it, much less follow 
it." 



Crossing tbe Htlanttc 43 



Her girlish laughter rang out again. 
**That was my advice," she said. 
**I was going to tell you not to plan 
any trip while you are at sea. Just 
enjoy the days as they come and go; 
don't count them; don't do anything 
at all but just he. 

'Tm not through yet," she went 
on. "Don't write any letters or read 
any books. Don't study human na- 
ture, and of all things don't volun- 
tarily make acquaintances. If they 
happen along, as I did, chat a bit if 
you choose, and when they pass on, 
forget them." 

And so I took advice after all. I 
made no plans, I made no abstruse 
diagnoses of human character, I made 
no acquaintances save such as casu- 
ally happened of themselves. And 
the days passed in a sort of rose- 



44 TLhc }£mtl^ ]£mmtns Ipapers 

colored haze, as indefinite as a foggy- 
sunrise, and as satisfying as a painted 
nocturne of Whistler's. And so, my 
first impressions of my first ocean 
crossing are indeed enviable. 




^mf'^-.^m^^^ 




- JZ7" " ' 

In England— Nbv^r 



The trip from Liverpool to London 
I found to be a green glimpse of Eng- 
land in the shape of a biograph. But 
the word green, as we say it in our 
haste, is utterly inadequate to apply 
to the color of the English landscape. 
Though of varying shades, it is always 
green to the n*^ power; it is a saturated 
solution of green; it is a green that 



45 



46 Zbc iSmil^ iBmmins papers 

sinks into the eye with a sensation of 
indeUbihty. And as this green flew 
by me, I watched it from the win- 
dow of a car most disappointingly Hke 
our own Pullmans. 

I had hoped for the humorous ab- 
surdities of the compartmented English 
trains. I had almost expected to see 
sitting opposite me a gentleman dressed 
in white paper, and I involuntarily 
watched for a guard who should look 
at me through a telescope, and say 
''You 're travelling the wrong way." 

For my most definite impressions 
of English railway carriages had been 
gained from my ''Alice,'* and I was 
annoyed to find myself booked for a 
large arm-chair seat in a parlor car, 
with my luggage checked to its London 
destination on "the American plan"! 

What, pray, was the use of coming 



** ITn Bnalanb— IFlow I '' 47 

abroad, if one was to have all the 
comforts of home? 

As if to add to the unsatisfactoriness 
of my first impressions of English 
travel, I found myself sitting opposite 
a young American woman. 

We faced each other across a small 
table, covered with what seemed 
to be green baize, but was more 
likely the reflection of the insistent 
landscape. 

The lady was one of those hopeless, 
helpless, newly rich, that affect so 
strongly the standing of Americans 
in Europe. 

She was blatantly pretty, and began 
to talk at once, apparently quite 
oblivious of the self-evident fact that 
I wanted to absorb in silence that 
flying green, to which her own nature 
was evidently quite impervious. 



48 Ube Bmtl^ Bmmins papers 

**Your first trip?" she said, though 
I never knew how she guessed it. 
*'My! it must be quite an event in 
your Hfe. Now it 's only an incident 
in mine." 

''You come often, then?" said I, 
not specially interested. 

*'Yes; that is, we shall come every 
summer now. You see, he made a 




" The one with the plaid travelling-cap." 

lot of money in copper, — ^that 's my 
husband over there, the one with the 



*' irn Bnglanb— mow ! '* 49 

plaid travelling-cap, — so we can travel 
as much as we like. We 've planned 
a long trip for this year, and we 've 
got to hustle, I can tell you. I 'm 
awfully systematic. I 've bought all 
the Baedekers, and this year I 'm 
going to see everything that 's marked 
with a double star. You know those 
are the 'sights which should on no 
account be omitted.' Then next year 
we '11 do up the single stars, and after 
that we can take things more leisurely." 

"You've never been over before, 
then?" I observed. 

"No," she admitted, a little re- 
luctantly; "I went to California last 
year. I think Americans ought to 
see their own country first." 

I could n't help wishing she had 
chosen this year for her California 
trip, but the accumulation of green 



50 Ube Bmilp lEmmtns ipapets 

vision had somehow magicked me into 
a mood of cooing amiabiUty, and I 
good-naturedly assisted her to prattle 
on, by offering an encouraging word 
now and then. 

"He's so good to me," she said, 
nodding toward her husband. ''He 
says he welcomes the coming and 
speeds the parting dollar. Is n't that 
cute? He 's an awfully witty man." 

She described the home he had just 
built for her in Chicago, and it seemed 
to be a sort of Liberal Arts Building 
set in the last scene of a comic opera. 

For a moment, I left the green to 
itself, while I looked at my unrefrac- 
tive countrywoman with an emotion 
evenly divided between pity and envy. 
For had she not reached the ultimate 
happiness, the apotheosis of content 
only possible to the wealthy Nitro- 



Bromide? And what was I that I 
should depreciate such soul-filling satis- 
faction? And why should my carp- 
ing analysis dub it ignorance? Why, 
indeed! 

After a few more green miles, 
an important-mannered guard, who 
proved to be also guide, philosopher, 
and friend, piloted me to a dining- 
car which might have been a part of 
the rolling-stock of the Pennsylvania 
Railroad. 

Nothing about it suggested the an- 
ticipated English discomfort, unless 
it might be the racks for the glasses, 
which, after all, relieved one of certain 
vague apprehensions. 

But at dinner it was my good luck 
to sit in a quartet, the other three 
members of which were typical Eng- 
lish people. 



52 Ube lEmtl^ lEmmtns papers 

I suppose it is a sort of reflex ner- 
vous action that makes people who 
eat together chummy at once. The 
fact of doing the same thing at the 
same time creates an involuntary sym- 
pathy which expands with the effects 
of physical refreshment. 

I patted myself on my mental 
shoulder as I looked at the three 
pleasant English faces, and I sud- 
denly became aware that, though of 
a different color, they affected me 
with exactly the same sensation as 
the clean, green English scenery. 

This, I conclude, was because Eng- 
lish people are so essentially a part 
of their landscape, a statement true 
of no Americans save the aboriginal 
Indian tribes. 

My table-mates were a perfect speci- 
men of the British matron, her husband, 



'^iruBnalanb— mow!** 53 



and her daughter. I should describe 
them as well-bred, but that term 
seems to imply an effect of acquisition 
by means of outside influences. They 
were, rather, well-born, in a sense 
that implies congenital good-breeding. 
Their name was Travers, and we 
slid into conversation as easily as a 
launching ship slides down into the 
water. Naturally I asked them to 
tell me of London, explaining that it 
was my first visit there, and I wished 
to know how to manage it. 

''What London do you want to 
use?" asked Mr. Travers, interestedly. 
"You know there are many Londons 
for the entertainment of visitors. We 
can give you the Baedeker London, 
or Dickens's London, or Stevenson's 
London, or Bernard Shaw's London, 
or Whistler's London " 



54 'Q^be iBmil^ lEmmins ipapers 

''Or our own W. D. Howells's Lon- 
don," I finished, as he paused in his 
catalogue. 

''I think," I went on, "the London 
I want is a composite affair, and I 
shall compile it as I go along. You 
know Browning says 'The world is 
made for each of us,' and so I think 
there 's a London made for each of 
us, and we have only to pick it out 
from among the myriad others." 

"That 's quite true," said Mrs. Tra- 
vers. " You '11 be using, do you see, 
many bits of those Londons mentioned, 
but combining them in such a way as 
to make an individual London all 
your own." 

The prospect delighted me, and I 
mentally resolved to build up such a 
London as never was on land or sea. 

"But," I observed, "aside from an 



** irn )EnGlanb— flow ! *' 55 

individually theorized London, there 
must be a practical side that is 
an inevitable accompaniment. There 
must be facts as well as opinions. I 
should be most glad of any hints or 
advices from experienced and kind- 
hearted Londoners." 

*' Without doubt," said Mr. Tra- 
vers, "the question trembling on the 
tip of your tongue is the one that 
trembles on the tip of every American 
tongue that lands on our shores — 
'What fee shall I give a cabman?' " 

I laughed outright at this, for it 
was indeed one of my collection of 
tongue-tipped questions. 

''But, sadly enough," went on the 
Englishman, "it is a question that it 
is useless for me to answer you at 
present. An American must be in 
London for four years before he can 



56 Ube Bmtlp ]£mmtn5 papers 



believe the true solution of the cab- 




He treats you to his opinion of you in choice Billingsgate. 



fee problem. The correct procedure 
is to give the cabby nothing beyond 



Hn^Enalanb— IRow!** S7 



his legal fare. If you give him tup- 
pence, he looks at you reproachfully; 
if you give him fourpence, he scowls 
at you fearfully; if you give him six- 
pence, he treats you to his verbal 
opinion of you in choice Billings- 
gate. Whereas, if you give him no 
gratuity, he assumes that you have 
lived here for four years, and lifts 
his hat to you with the greatest re- 
spect. " 

''Why can't I follow your rule at 
once?" I demanded. 

"I do not know," returned Mr. 
Travers. "Nobody knows; but the 
fact remains that you cannot. You 
think you believe the theory now, 
because you hear me set it forth with 
an air of authority; but it will take 
you at least four years to attain a true 
working knowledge of it. Moreover, 



58 XTbe Bmtlp lEmmtns iCapera 

you will ask every Englishman you 
meet regarding cab-fees, and so con- 
flicting will be their advices that you 
will change your tactics with every 
hansom you ride in." 

''Then," said I, with an air of in- 
dependence, "I shall keep out of 
hansom-cabs, until I am fully de- 
termined what course to pursue in 
this regard." 

''But you can't, my dear lady," 
continued my instructor. "To be in 
London is to be in a hansom. They 
are inevitable." 

"Why not omnibuses?" I asked, 
eager for general information. " I 
have long wanted to ride in or on a 
London 'bus." 

Mr. Travers's eyes twinkled. 

"You have an American joke," he 
said, "which cautions people against 



** Ifn lEuGlanb— flow ! '* S9 

going into the water before they learn 
how to swim. I will give you an 
infallible rule for 'buses: never get 
on a London 'bus until you have 




" What waggery," observed Mrs. Travers. 

learned to get on and off of them 
while they are in motion." 

''What waggery!" observed Mrs. 
Travers, in a calm, unamused tone, 
and I suddenly realized that I was 
in the midst of an English sense of 
humor. 



6o Zbc lEmtlp Bmmins ipapets 

The dinner progressed methodi- 
cally through a series of specified 
courses, and when we had reached 
the vegetable marrow I had ceased 
to regard the green distance outside 
and gave my full attention to my 
lucky find of the Real Thing in English 
people. 

Mr. Travers's advice was always ex- 
cellent and practical, though usually 
hidden in a jest of somewhat heavy 
persiflage. 

We discussed the English tendency 
to elide letters or syllables from their 
proper names, falling back on the 
time-worn example of the American 
who complained that Englishmen spell 
a name B-e-a-u-c-h-a-m-p and pro- 
nounce it Chumley. 

"But it 's better for an American," 
said Mr. Travers, ''to pronounce a 



**1in Bnglant)— IRowI*' 6i 



name as it is spelled than to elide at 
his own sweet will. I met a Chicagoan 
last summer, who said he intended to 
run out to Win'c's'le." 

''What did he mean?" I asked, in 
my ignorance. 

''Windsor Castle," replied Mr. Tra- 
vers, gravely. 

The mention of Chicago made me 
remember my companion in the parlor 
car, and I spoke of her as one type 
of the American tourist. 

"I saw her," said Mrs. Travers, 
with that inimitable air of separate- 
ness that belongs to the true Lon- 
doner; "she is not interesting. Merely 
a smart party who wears a hat.'* 

As this so competently described 
the lady from Chicago, I began to 
suspect, what I later came thoroughly 
to realize, that the English are won- 



62 XTbe lEmtlp Bmmins papers 

derfully adept in the making of pic- 
turesque phrases. 




'* Merely a smart party who wears a hat.' 

During our animated conversation, 

Miss Travers had said almost nothing. 

I had read of the mental blankness 



** Hn JEnglanC)— laow !" 63 

of the British Young Person, and was 
not altogether surprised at this. 

But the girl was a dehght to look 
at. By no means of the pink-cheeked, 
red-lipped variety immortalized in 
English novels, she was of a delicate 
build, with a face of transparent 
whiteness. Her soft light brown hair 
was carelessly arranged, and her violet 
eyes would have been pathetic but 
for a flashing, merry twinkle when 
she occasionally raised their heavy, 
creamy lids. 

Remembering Mrs. Traverses apt- 
ness in coining phrases of description, 
I tried to put Rosalind Travers into 
a few words, but was obliged to borrow 
from the Master-Coiner, and I called 
her ''The Person of Moonshine." 

By the time I was having my first 
interview with real Cheddar cheese. 



64 Ube Bmili? lEmmlns papers 

the Traverses were inviting me to 
visit them, and I was gladly accepting 
their delightfully hospitable and un- 
mistakably sincere invitation. 

Scrupulously careful to bid good- 
bye to my Chicago friend before we 
reached London, alone I stepped from 
the train at Euston Station with a 
feeling of infinite anticipation. 

Owing probably to an over-excited 
imagination, the mere physical at- 
mosphere of the city impressed me as 
something quite different from any 
city I had ever seen. I felt as if I 
had at last come into my own, and 
had far more the attitude of a returning 
wanderer than a visiting stranger. 

The hansom-cabs did not appear 
any different from the New York 
vehicles of the same name, but I 
climbed into one without that vague 



* ' irn Bnglanb— mow ! ** 65 

wonder as to whether it would n't 
be cheaper to buy the outfit than 
to pay my fare. 

My destination was a club in Pic- 
cadilly — a woman's club, which I had 
joined for the sole purpose of using 
its house as an abiding-place. 

The cab-driver was cordial, even 
solicitous about my comfort, but fi- 
nally myself and my hand-luggage 
were carefully stowed away, the glass 
was put down, and we started. 

It was after dark, and it was raining, 
two conditions which might appall 
an unescorted woman in a strange 
city. The rain was of that ridiculous 
English sort, where the drops do not 
fall, but play around in the air, now 
and then whisking into the faces of 
passers-by, but never spoiling their 
clothes. It was enough, though, to 



66 Ube Bmtl^ lEmmlns papers 

wet the asphalt, and when we swung 
into Piccadilly, and the flashing lights 
from everywhere dived down into the 
street, and rippled themselves across 
the wet blackness of the pavement, 
I suddenly realized that I was driving 
over one of the most beautiful things 
in the world. 

I looked out through my hansom- 
glass darkly, at London. Unknown, 
mysterious, silent, but enticing with 
its twinkling eyes, it was like a masked 
beauty at a ball. Yet, beneath that 
mocking, elusive witchery, I was con- 
scious of an implied promise, that my 
London wou d yet unmask, and I 
should know and love her face to face. 




May fair in the 

Fair Month of 

May, 




I SUPPOSE that the earHest thing 
that happens anywhere is the London 
dawn. In all my life, my waking 
hours had never reached three o'clock 
A.M., from either direction, and when, 
on the first morning after my arrival 
in London, I was awakened at that 
hour by a gently intrusive daybreak, 
I felt as if I had received a personal 
and intentional affront. 
67 



68 XTbe iBmil^g lEmmtns papers 

I rose, and stalked to the window, 
with an air of haughty reproach, in- 
tending to close the shutters tightly 
until a more seemly hour. 

As there are only six window-shut- 
ters in the whole city of London, it 
is not surprising that none of these 
was attached to my window; but it 
really did n't matter, for after reach- 
ing the window that morning I never 
thought of a shutter again until I 
returned to America. 

My window, which was a large 
French affair in three parts, looked 
out upon Piccadilly. It opened on 
a small stone-railed balcony, and as 
I looked out three pigeons looked in. 
They were of the fat and pompous 
kind and they strutted along the 
railing, with a frankly sociable air, 
cocking their heads pertly in an en- 



/IDa^tatr In tbe jf air /IDontb ot Hba^ 69 

deavor to draw my attention to the 
glistening iridescence of their neck- 
feathers. 

I liked the pigeons, and I told them 
so, but even better I liked the sight 
across the street. 

Green Park at dawn is as solemnly 
impressive as the interior of West- 
minster Abbey. The trees sway and 
quiver, giving an occasional glimpse 
of the Clock Tower of Parliament 
House. From the throats of myriad 
birds comes a sound as of one blended 
twitter, and a strange, unreal radiance 
pervades the whole scene. With the 
rapidly increasing daylight definite- 
ness ensues, and railings, benches, 
roadway, and other details of the 
Park add strength to the picture. 

Having seen three o'clock in Green 
Park, I promptly forgot my errand 



70 Ube jemtli? Bmmins ipapers 



with the shutters, and, hastily don- 
ning conventional morning costume, 
I prepared to watch four o'clock, and 
five, and six appear from the same 
direction. 

As outlines became clearer I no- 
ticed a park bench directly opposite 
my window, on which sat four old 




They were occupying the only earthly home they possessed. 

women. All were garbed in black, 
and all were sleeping soundly. I was 
then unaware of the large proportion 
of the elderly feminine in London's 



/IDa^tatr in tbe ffatr /IDontb ot /iDap u 

seamy side of population, and so 
casual was the aspect of the quartet 
that it did not occur to me they were 
occupying the only earthly home they 
possessed. 

They seemed to me more like du- 
plicate Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshines, 
who had paused for a time in Green 
Park instead of in mid-ocean. 

But after I had seen the same 
women there at three o'clock on a 
dozen consecutive mornings I began 
to realize that they were part of the 
landscape. 

Nor was I unduly sorry for them. 
They sat on that bench with the same 
air of voluntary appropriation that 
marked the birds in the trees, or the 
pigeons on the railing. And as the 
days went on I became accustomed 
to seeing them there, and ceased to 



72 Ube iSmil^ jEmmins papers 

feel any inclination to go out and try 
to persuade them to enter an old 
ladies' home. 

At about seven o'clock the omni- 
buses began to ply. I had never 
known before what was indicated by 
the verb to ply. But I saw at once 
that it is the only word that properly 
expresses the peculiar gait of an omni- 
bus, which is a cross between a rolling 
lurch and a lumbering wobble. Fas- 
cination is a mild term for the effect 
these things had on me. 

One omnibus might not so enthrall 
me. I don't know; I have never 
seen one omnibus alone. But the 
procession of them along Piccadilly 
is the one thing on earth of which 
I cannot conceive myself becoming 
tired. 

Their color, form, motion, and 



/iDaptatr in tbe ffatr /iDoutb of /IDai^ 73 

sound all partake of the primeval, 
and their continuity of effect is eternal. 

My Baedeker tells me that the first 
omnibuses plying in London were 
*'much heavier and clumsier than 
those now in use." But of course 
this is a mistake, for they could n't 
have been. 

I have heard that tucked away 
among the gay-colored advertise- 
ments that are patch worked all over 
these moving Mammoth Caves are 
small and neatly-lettered signs desig- 
nating destinations. I do not know 
this. I have never been able to find 
them. But it does n't matter. To 
get to Hampstead Heath, you take 
a Bovril; to go to the City, take 
Carter's Ink; and to get anywhere in 
a hurry, jump on a Horlick's Malted 
Milk. There is also a graceful ser- 



74 '^lyc JBmil^ Bmmins papers 

pentine legend lettered down the back 
of each 'bus, but as this usually says 
''Liverpool Street," I think it can't 
mean much. 

Personally, I never patronize one 
of the things. They are too uncanny 
for me, and their ways are more de- 
vious than those 'of our Seventeenth 
Street horse-cars. 

Besides, I always feared that, if I 
got in or on one, I could n't see the 
rest of them as a whole. And it is 
the unbroken continuity that, after 
the coloring, is their greatest charm. 
I have spent many hours watching 
the Piccadilly procession of them, 
''like a wounded snake drag its slow 
length along," and look forward to 
many hours more of the same delight. 
But the dawn, the daybreak, and the 
early morning slipped away, and all 



/iDa^tatr in tbe ffair /iDontb of /iDa^ 75 

too soon my first day in London had 
begun. 

My mail brought me difficulties of 
all sorts. There were invitations from 
people, whom well-meaning mutual 
friends had advised of my arrival. 
There were offers from friends or 
would-be friends to escort me about on 
shopping or sight-seeing tours. There 
were cards for functions of more or less 
formality, and there were circulars from 
tradesmen and professional people. 

With a Gordian-knot-cutting im- 
pulse, I tossed the whole collection 
into my desk, and started out alone 
for a morning walk. 

Nor shall I ever forget that walk. 
Not only because it was a ''first im- 
pression, " but because it was the most 
beautiful piece of pedestrianism that 
ever fell to my lot. 



76 XTbe iBmii^ Bmmins papers 



My clubhouse home was almost at 
the corner of Hamilton Place, and as I 
stepped from its portal out into Pic- 




Tossed the whole collection into my desk. 

cadilly I seemed to breathe the quin- 
tessence of London; past, present, and 
to come. 

Meteorologically speaking, the at- 



/iDa^tatr in tbe ffatr /iDontb ot /iDap 77 

mosphere was perfect. The reputa- 
tion for fogginess, that London has 
somehow acquired, is a base libel. 
Its air is marked by a dazzling clear- 
ness of haze that, more than anything 
else, "life's leaden metal into gold 
transmutes." 

Thus exhilarated at the start, I 
began my stroll down Piccadilly, and 
at every step I added to my glowing 
sense of satisfied well-being. I turned 
north into Berkeley Street, and thus 
started on my first sight-seeing tour. 
And was it not well that I was by 
myself? 

For the most kind and well-meaning 
cicerone would probably have said, 

"Do you not want to see the house 
where Car'yle died?' 

And how embarrassed would I have 
been to be obliged to make reply: 



78 Ube ]£mtl^ Bmmlns papers 

"No, not especially. But I do want 
to see where Tomlinson gave up the 
ghost in his house in Berkeley Square." 

Nor would my guide have been able 
to point out that perhaps mythical 
residence. But I had no trouble in 
finding it. Unerring instinct guided 
me along Berkeley Square, till I reached 
what I felt sure was the very house, 
and since I was satisfied, what mattered 
it to any one else? 

This being accomplished, I next 
proceeded in a desultory and incon- 
sequent fashion to explore Mayfair. 

Aided, like John Gay, by the goddess 
Trivia, I knew I could 

securely stray 
Where winding alleys, lead the doubtful way ; 
The silent court and opening square explore, 
And long perplexing lanes untrod before. 

And as I trod, I suddenly found 



/iDapfatr in the ffatr /iDontb ot /IDai? 79 

myself in Curzon Street. This was 
a pleasant sensation, for did I not 
well know the name of Curzon Street 
from all the English novels I had ever 
read? Moreover, I knew that in one 
of its houses Lord Beaconsfield died, 
and in another the Duke of Marl- 
borough lived. The detail of knowing 
which house was which possessed no 
interest for me. 

I rambled on, marvelling at the 
suddenness with which streets met 
each other, and their calm disregard 
of all method or symmetry, till I 
began to feel like ''the crooked man 
who walked a crooked mile." 

Attracted by the name of Half-Moon 
Street, I left Curzon Street for it. 
Shelley once lived in this street, and 
I selected three houses any one of 
which might have been his home. I 



8o Ube lEmil^ jEmmtns papers 

went back, I traversed some delight- 
ful mewses (what is the plural of 
mews?), crossed Berkeley Square, and 
then, somehow or other, I found my- 
self in Bond Street, and my mood 
changed. At first the shops seemed 
unattractive and I felt disappointment 
edging itself into my soul. 

But like an ugly woman, possessed 
of charm, the crammed-full windows 
began to fascinate me, and I forgot 
the inadequate sidewalks and unpre- 
tentious fagades in the absorbing dis- 
plays of wares. 

Bond Street shop- windows are hyp- 
notic. Fifth Avenue windows stolidly 
hold their exhibits up to one's view, 
without a trace of invitation, but Bond 
Street windows compel one to enter, 
by a sort of uncanny influence im- 
possible to resist. 



/IDa^tatr in the ffair /IDontb ot /IDa^ 8i 

Though I expected to shop in Lon- 
don, there was only one article that I 
was really anxious to buy. This was 
a jade cube. For many years I had 
longed for a jade cube, and American 
experts had contented themselves with 
stating there was no such thing in 
existence. Time after time, I had 
begged friends who were going to the 
ends of the earth to bring me back a 
jade cube from one of the ends, but 
none had accomplished my errand. 

I determined therefore to use every 
effort to secure a jade cube for myself, 
and forthwith began my quest. 

A mineralogist on Bond Street 
showed more interest at once than 
any of my personal friends had ever 
evinced. Though he declared there 
was no such thing in existence, he 
further remarked his entire willingness 



82 Ube Bmll^ Bmmins papers 



to cut one for me from the best quality 
of Chinese jade. 




He was quite as interested. 

He was quite as interested as I 
was myself, and, though it seemed 
inartistic to end so quickly what I 



/iDaptair m tbe ffair /iDontb ot /iDa^ 83 

had expected to be a long and difficult 
quest, I left the order. 

The cube turned out a perfect 
success, and will always be one of my 
dearest and best-loved possessions. It 
has the same charm of perfection that 
characterizes a Japanese rock-crystal 
ball, and the added interest of being 
vmique. There was, too, a charm in 
the interest shown in the cube by the 
old mineralogist, and also by his wife. 

The day I went after the completed 
polished cube, the elderly madame 
came into the shop from a back room, 
to congratulate me on the attainment 
of my desire. 

Incidentally, the good people en- 
deavored (and successfully) to per- 
suade me to buy further of their 
wares. 

They had a bewildering assortment 



84 XLbc Bmil^ Bmmins iPapers 

of semi-precious stones, curious min- 
erals, and wrought metals and strange 
bits of handiwork from foreign coun- 
tries. Beads, of course, in profusion, 
and fascinatingly ugly little idols. 
As all these things have great charm 
for me, and as I am always easily 
persuaded to buy,' I bought largely, to 
the great satisfaction of the elderly 
shopkeepers. But, as I had learned 
a little of their tricks and their manners 
I offered them, a bit shamefacedly, a 
lower price in each instance than they 
asked. To my relief, they took this 
proceeding quite as a matter of course, 
and cheerfully accepted the smaller 
sum without demur. 

But to return to that first morning, 
after my interview with the mild- 
mannered mineralogist I strolled along 
Old Bond Street back to Piccadilly. 



/IDa^tair in tbe ffair /IDontb ot /IDa^ 85 

The Tennyson's Brook of omnibuses 
was still going on, and I stood on the 
corner to watch them again. From 
this point of view the effect is quite 
different from that seen from an up- 
stairs window. 

You cease to generalize about the 
procession, and regard the individual 
'bus with a new awe. 

The ocean may be wider, — ^the Flat- 
iron Building may be taller, — but 
there 's nothing in all the world so big 
as a London omnibus. 




An English telephone is a contra- 
diction in terms. If it is in England, 
it is n't a telephone. It is a thing 
that looks something like a broken 
ox-yoke, that is manipulated some- 
thing like a trombone, and is about 
as effectual as the Keeley Motor. 

A course of lessons is necessary to 
learn to use one, but the lessons are 
wasted, as the instrument is invariablv 

86 



H Ibostess at Ibome 87 

out of order, and moreover, nobody 
has one, anyhow. 

But one morning, before I had dis- 
covered all this, I was summoned to 
the telephone booth of the Pantheon 
Club, and blithely grasped the cum- 
bersome affair, with its receiver on one 
end and its transmitter on the other. 
I ignorantly held it wrong end to, 
but that made no difference, as it 
wouldn't work either way. 

''Grawsp it stiffer, madame," ad- 
vised the anxious Buttons who en- 
gineered it. At length I discovered 
that this meant to press firmly on a 
fret, as if playing a flute, but by this 
time the party addressing me had 
been disconnected from the other end, 
and all attempts to regain communi- 
cation were futile. 

The boy took the instrument, and I 



88 XTbe JEmtlp ]£mmlns papers 

have never seen a finer display of 
human ingenuity and patience than 
he showed for the next half -hour try- 
ing to hear that chord again. Then 




**Grawsp it stiffer, M'am." 

he gave it up, and, laying the horrid 
thing gently in its cradle, he non- 
chalantly informed me that if the 
party awrsked for me again, he 'd 



H Ibostess at Ibome 89 

send me naotice, and then demanded 
tuppence. 

This I wilHngly paid, as I was al- 
ways glad to get rid of those copper 
heavy-weights; and, too, it seemed 
a remarkably small price even for 
a telephone call, — ^until I suddenly 
remembered that I had n't made the 
call, — nor had I received it. 

The call was repeated later, and 
after another distracting session of 
incoherent shouting, and painfully- 
cramped finger muscles, I learned that 
I was invited to an informal dinner 
that evening at Mrs. Marchbanks's at 
seven-thirty. 

I had not intended to plunge into 
the social whirl so soon, and had de- 
clined all the many invitations which 
had come to me by mail. 

But somehow the telephone invi- 



90 Xi:i3e lEmll^ Bmmins papers 

tat ion took me unawares, and, too, I 
was so pleased to succeed in getting 
the message at all that it seemed 
ungracious and ungrateful to refuse. 
So, I took a fresh grip on the fretted 
monster, and, aiming my voice care- 
fully at the far-away transmitter, I 
shouted an acceptance. I hoped it 
reached the goal, but as there was 
nothing but awful silence afterward, 
I had to take it on faith, and I 
went away to look over my dinner 
gowns. 

The invitation had been classed as 
*' informal, " but I knew the elasticity 
of that term, and so, though I did not 
select my very best raiment, I chose 
a pretty decollete frock, that had 
"New York" legibly written on its 
every fold and pucker. 

So late is the dusk of the London 



H fbostess at ITDome 9 1 

spring that I easily made my toilette 
by daylight, and was all ready at 
seven o'clock. 

Carefully studying my Baedeker 
maps and plans to make sure of the 
distance, I stepped into my hansom 
just in time to reach my destination 
at a minute or two before half past 
seven, assuming that New York cus- 
toms prevailed in England. 

The door was opened to me by an 
amazed -looking maid, who seemed so 
uncertain what to do with me that 
I almost grew embarrassed myself. 

Finally, she asKcd me to follow her 
up-stairs, and then ushered me into a 
room where my hostess, in the hands 
of her maid, was in the earliest stages 
of her toilette. 

"You dear thing," she said, ''how 
sweet of you to come. Yes, Louise, 



92 Ube i£mil^ lEmmins papers 

that aigrette is right. Here is the key 
of my jewel case." 

"I fear I have mistaken the hour," 
I said; *'the telephone was a bit dif- 
ficult, — but I understood half past 
seven." 

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Marchbanks, 
studying the back of her head in a 
hand-mirror, "but in London seven- 
thirty means eight, you know." 

This was definite information, and 
I promptly stored it away for future 
use. Also, it was reliable information, 
for it proved true, and at eight the 
guests began to arrive. 

Dinner was served at quarter to 
nine, and all was well. 

Incidentally I had learned my 
lesson. 

The half-hour in the drawing-room 
before dinner was an interesting ''first 



H UDostess at Ibome 93 

impression" of that indescribable com- 
bination of warmth and frost known 
as a London Hostess. 

Further experience taught me that 
Mrs. Marchbanks was a typical one. 

The London hostess's invariable 
mode of procedure is a sudden, in- 
ordinate gush of welcome, followed 
immediately by an icy stare. By 
the time you have politely responded 
to the welcome, your hostess has for- 
gotten your existence. Nay, more, 
she seems almost to have forgotten 
her own. She is vague, self-absorbed, 
and quite oblivious of your existence. 
I have heard of a lady with a gra- 
cious presence. The London hostess 
is best described by a gracious ab- 
sence. 

But having adapted yourself to 
this condition, your hostess is likely 



94 XTbe Bmil^ lEmmins papers 

to whirl about and dart a remark or a 
question at you. 

On the evening under discussion, 
my hostess suddenly broke off her 
own greeting to another guest, to say 
to me, ''Of course you '11 be wanting 
to buy some new clothes at once." 

This statement was accompanied 
by a deliberate survey, from berthe to 
hem, of my palpably American-made 
gown, and as the incident pleased my 
sense of humor, I felt no resentment, 
and amiably acquiesced in her decision. 

Then, funnily enough, the conver- 
sation turned upon good-breeding. 

**A well-bred Englishwoman," my 
hostess dictatorially observed, ''never 
talks of herself. She tactfully makes 
the person to v/hom she is talking 
the subject of conversation." 

"But," said I, "if the person to 



H Ibostess at Ibome 95 

whom she is talking is also well-bred, 
he must reject that subject, and tact- 
fully talk about the first speaker. 
This must bring about a deadlock." 
She looked at me, or rather through 
me, in a pitying, uncomprehending 
way, and went on: 

''The well-bred Englishwoman never 
makes an allusion or an implication 
that could cause even the slightest 
trace of discomfiture or annoyance to 
the person addressed." 

This, of itself, seemed true enough, 
but again she turned swiftly toward 
me, and abruptly inquired, "Doesn't 
the servility of the English servants 
embarrass you?" 

This time, too, my sense of humor 
saved me from embarrassment, but 
I began to think serious-minded per- 
sons should not brave the slings and 



96 XTbe Bmtl^ Bmmins papers 

arrows of a well-bred Englishwoman. 

Geniality and ingenuousness are 
alike unknown to the English hostess. 
It is a very rare thing to meet a 
charming Englishwoman. Good traits 
they have in plenty and many sterling 
qualities which Americans often lack, 
but magnetism and responsiveness are 
as a rule not among these qualities. 

And I do not yet know whether it is 
through ignorance or with malice pre- 
pense that an English hostess greets 
you effusively, and then drops you 
with an air of finality that gives a ' ' lost 
your last friend" feeling more than 
anything else in all the world. 

This state of things is of course more 
pronouncedly noticeable at teas than 
at dinners. At an afternoon reception, 
the hostility of the hostess is beyond 
all words. Moreover, at English after- 



H Ibostess at Ibome 97 

noon teas there are two rules. One 
is you may not speak to a fellow- 
guest without an introduction. The 
other is that no introduction is neces- 
sary between guests of the house. 
One of these rules is always inflexibly 
enforced at every tea; but the casual 
guest never knows which one, and so 
complications ensue. 

English hostesses always seem to 
me very much like that peculiar kind 
of flowered chintz with which they 
cover their furniture — the kind that 
looks like oilcloth, and is very cold 
and shiny, very beautiful, very slippery, 
and decidedly uncomfortable. 

But in inverse proportion to the 
conversational unsatisfactoriness of the 
English women are the entertaining 
powers of the English men. They 
are voluntarily delightful. They make 



98 Ube lemtl^ lEmmtns papers 

an effort (if necessary) to be pleas- 
antly talkative and amusing. 

And, notwithstanding the tradi- 
tional slurs on British humor, the 
English society man is deliciously hu- 
morous, and often as brilliantly witty 
as our own Americans. 

At the dinner •! have mentioned 
above, I was seated next to a some- 
what insignificant-looking young man 
of true English spick-and-spanness, and 
with a delightful drawl, almost like the 
one written as dialect in international 
novels. 

Perhaps in consideration of my 
probable American attitude toward 
British humor, he good-naturedly 
amused me with jokes directed against 
his national peculiarities. 

He described graphically an English- 
man who was blindly groping about 



H Ibostess at 1bome 



99 



in his brain for a good story which he 
had heard and stored away there. 
'* Ah, yes, " said the supposed would-be 
jester; ''the man was ill; and he said 




He amused me with jokes directed against his 
national peculiarities. 

his physician advised that he should 
every morning take a cup of coffee 
and take a walk around the place." 

''He had missed the point, do you 
see," explained my amusing neigh- 
bor, "and the joke should have been 
* take a cup of coffee, and take a walk 
on the grounds,' do you see?" 

LOFC 



loo Ube Bmil^ Bmmtns papers 

So pleased was the young man with 
the whole story, that I laughed in 
sympathy, and he went on to say: 

''But you Americans make just the 
same mistakes about our jokes. Now 
only last week Punch had a ripping 
line asking why the Americans were 
making such a fuss about Bishop 
Potter, and said any one would think 
he was a meat-potter. Now one of 
your New York daily papers borrowed 
the thing, and made it read, ' What 's 
the matter with Bishop Potter? Any 
one would think he was a meat packer.' 
Ton my honor, Miss Emmins, I know 
that for a fact!" 

"Then I think," I replied, "that we 
ought never again, to throw stones at 
the British sense of humor." 

In the pause that followed, a bulky 
English lord across the table was 



H Ibostess at fbomc 



lOI 



heard denouncing the course taken by 
a certain poHtical party. So ener- 
getic were his gestures, and so forceful 
his speech, that he had grown very 
red and beUigerent-looking, and fairly 
hammered the table in his indignation. 
The young man next to me looked 




Denouncing the course taken by a certain political party. 

at him, as an indulgent father might 
look at a naughty child. ''Isn't he 
the saucy puss?" said my neighbor, 
turning to me with such a roguish 
smile that his remark seemed the fun- 
niest thing I had ever heard. 



I02 Zbc lEmtl^ lEmmtns papers 



I frankly told my attractive din- 
ner partner that the men of London 
society were far more entertaining 
than the women. He did not seem 
surprised at this, but seemed to look 
upon it as an accepted condition. 

I glanced across the table at a young 
Englishwoman. She 




She was an " Honorable' 
and possessed of a 
jointed surname. 



was an *'Honor- 
able, " and possessed 
of a jointed surname. 
She was attired with 
great wealth and un- 
becomingness, and, 
to sum her up in a 
general way, she 
looked as if she did 



not write poetry. 

*'Yes, " she was saying, **cabs are 
cheap with us, but if you ride a lot 
in a day, they count up." This is a 



H Ibostess at Ibome 103 



stock remark with London women and 
I was not surprised to hear it again. 

I glanced at my young man. He 
too had heard, and he quickly caught 
my mental attitude. 

*' Yes," he said, ''Englishwomen and 
girls are very fit; they 're good form, 
accomplished, and all that. But, 
though they know a lot, somehow, er, 
— ^their minds don't jell." 

As this exactly expressed my own 
opinion, I was delighted at his clever 
phrasing of it. 

But if the Englishman is charming 
as a dinner guest, he is even more so 
when he is host, as he often is at 
afternoon tea. And though I attended 
many teas presided over by London 
men, all others fade into insignificance 
beside the one given me at the Punch 
office. 



I04 XTbe Bmilp Bmmins papers 

I was the only guest, the host was 
the genial and miraculously clever Ed- 
itor of Punch. 

The tea was of the ordinary London 
deliciousness, the cakes and thin bread- 
and-butter were, as always, over there, 
the best in the world ; but it was served 
to us on the historic Punch table, the 
great table where every Friday night, 
since the beginning of that publication, 
its editorial staff has dined. 

And as each diner at some time cut 
his monogram into the table, the semi- 
polished surface shows priceless me- 
morials of the great British authors, 
artists, and illustrators. 

I was informed by my kind host 
that I might sit at any place I chose. 
I hesitated between Thackeray's and 
Mark Lemon's, but finally by a sudden 
impulse I dropped into a chair in 



H IFDostesB at fbome 105 

front of the monogram of George du 
Maurier. 

The Editor of Punch smiled a little, 
but he only said, "You Americans 
are a humorous people." 




-s- 



.A 






V. 







E^ 



.^■^^V '' "' 



72e Lc^ht on Hums It Hrow. 



My own subjective London was 
achieving itself. I have always re- 
membered pleasantly, how, 

Without a bit of trouble, 
Arabella blew a bubble, 

and, with emulative ease, I blew a 
beautiful, impalpable, iridescent sphere 
and called it London. 

To be sure, a single interrogation 

io6 



Ube Xigbt on :Burns*s JBrow 107 

point from an earnest Tourist would 
have burst my bubble, for my whole 
London had n't a Tower or a British 
Museum in it. 

Nor was this an oversight. Calling 
to my aid a moral courage that was 
practically a moral hardihood, I had 
deliberately concluded I would do no 
sightseeing. Not that I objected to 
seeing a sight, now and then, but 
the sight would have to put itself in 
my way, and the conditions would 
have to be such that I should prefer 
to go through the sight rather than 
around it. 

Indeed, it was largely the word 
sightseeing that I took exception to. 
Such a very defective verb! Who 
would voluntarily put herself in a 
position to say, ''I sightsaw the Na- 
tional Gallery yesterday," or *'I have 



io8 XTbe JSmil^ iSmmins ipapers 

sightseen the whole City," and then 
have no proper parts of speech to 
say it with? 

Moreover, I was not wilhng to go 
about my London carrying a Baedeker. 
In truth, my soul was possessed of 
conflicting emotions toward that little 
red book. As a directory it was in- 
valuable. Never did I get an invita- 
tion to a place of mysterious sound, 
such as Kensington Gore, or Bird-in- 
Bush Road, but I ran to my Baedeker 
and quickly found therein the location, 
description, and directions for reaching 
the same. I soon mastered the pink 
and gray maps, with their clever con- 
trivance of corresponding numbers, 
and with my Baedeker back of me I 
could have found the most obscure 
and bewildering address that even a 
Londoner is capable of devising. 



XTbe %iQbt on Burns's Brow 109 

But the pages devoted to "Sights 
which Should on No Account be 
Omitted," and the kindly advice on 
''Disposition of Time for the Hurried 




The ingenious efforts of tourists to disguise their Baedekers. 

Visitor," I avoided with all the 
strength of my unsightseeing soul. 

I was often amused at the ingenious 
efforts of tourists to disguise their 



1 1 o XTbe Bmil^ lEmmlns papers 

Baedekers. One tailor-made Ameri- 
can girl had hers neatly covered with 
bright blue paper, quite oblivious of 
the fact that the marbled edges and 
fluttering red and black tapes are 
unmistakable. Another, a pedagogic 
BovStonian, had hers wrapped in brown 
paper and tied with a string. Another 
had a leather case which exactly 
fitted the volume. And I thought 
that as the nude in art is far less sug- 
gestive than the semi-draped figure, so 
the uncovered red book was really 
less noticeable than these futile at- 
tempts at disguise. 

Having, then, definitely decided that 
I should eventually return to America 
withovit having set foot in the Tower, 
the Bank or the Charter-house, I 
drew a long breath of content, and 
gave myself up to the delight of just 



Ube OLlGbt on Burns'5 Brow 1 1 1 

living in the atmOvSphere of my own 
London. 

And yet, I wanted to go to the 
Tower, the Bank, and the Charter- 
house. I wanted to go to Westminster 
Abbey and Saint Paul's and the Na- 
tional Gallery. But I did not want 
to go for the first time. I wanted to 
revisit these places, and how could 
I do that when I had never yet vis- 
ited them? 

First impressions of Piccadilly or 
Hyde Park are all very well, but 
first impressions are incongruous in 
connection with Westminster Abbey. 
What has crude admiration to do 
with experienced sublimity? How ab- 
surd to let the gaze of surprise rest 
upon age-accustomed glory! What 
presumption to look at solemn ancient 
grandeur as at a novelty! I wished 



1 1 2 Ube i£milp lEmmtns papers 

that I had been to Westminster Ab- 
bey many, many times, and that 1 
could drift in again some lovely sum- 
mer afternoon to revive old memories 
and renew old emotions. 

But as this might not be, then 
would I keep away from it entirely, 
and study it from books as I had 
always done. 

One day - a departing caller care- 
lessly left behind her a pamphlet 
entitled The Deanery Guide to West- 
minster Abbey. With a natural cu- 
riosity I picked it up and opened it. 

But I got no farther than the first 
fly-leaf, for that bore an advertisement 
of Rowland's Macassar Oil! I promptly 
forgot the existence of Westminster 
Abbey in the delight of finding that 
my London contained such a desirable 
commodity. Not that I wished to 



Ube Xtgbt on Burns's Btow 1 1 3 



purchase the lotion, but I was absorb- 
ingly interested to learn that there 
really was such a thing. I had never 
heard of it before except in connection 
with the Aged, aged man, a-sitting 




That bore an advertisement of Rowland's Macassar Oil! 

on a gate, who manufactured Row- 
land's Macassar Oil from mountain 
rills which he chanced to set ablaze. 
The remembrance of that dear old 
white-haired man, placidly going his 
ways, and content with the tuppence 



114 Ube lEmil^ Bmmtns papers 

ha'-penny that rewarded his toil, filled 
my soul to the exclusion of all else, 
and he made a welcome addition to 
the census of my own London. It 
was pleasant, too, to reflect on the 
sound logic of the English people 
when they coined the word " anti- 
macassar. " How much more restrict- 
edly definite than our word ''tidy"! 

Well, then next it came about that 
I went for a walk. 

And, as was bound to happen sooner 
or later, I was strolling unthinkingly 
along, when I found myself with the 
Houses of Parliament on my right 
hand and Westminster Abbey on m}^ 
left. I was fairly caught, and sur- 
rendered at discretion. The only ques- 
tion was w^hich way to turn. As I 
had no choice in the matter, I should 
logically have gone, like John Buri- 



Ube tILtobt on Burns* s Brow 1 1 5 

dan's Ass, straight ahead, and so 
missed both; but the Abbey, with an 
almost imperceptible nod of invitation, 
compelled me to turn that way, and 
involuntarily, though not at all un- 
willingly, I entered. 

Whereupon I made the startling 
discovery that I was in the Poets' 
Corner ! Now, I had definitely planned 
that if ever I did visit the Abbey, I 
would enter by the North Transept, 
and gradually accustom myself to the 
atmosphere of the place. I would go 
away after a short inspection, and 
return several times to revisit it, 
before I even approached the Poets* 
Corner. And to find myself thus un- 
expectedly and somewhat informally 
introduced to an inscription attesting 
the rarity of Ben Jonson, took me 
unawares, and my eyes rested coldly 



ii6 XTbe Brntlp Bmmtns papers 



on the words, and then passed on 




I took a few tentative steps, which brought me to the 
bust of our own Longfellow, 

still uninterestedly, to Spencer, Milton, 
and Gray. 



Ubc XiGbt on Burns*5 Brow 1 17 

Uncertain whether to advance or 
retreat I took a few tentative steps, 
which brought nie to the bust of our 
own Longfellow. The dignified and 
old-school New Englander is here repre- 
sented as a plump-faced and jovial 
gentleman with very curly hair. The 
marble is excessively white and new- 
looking, and altogether the monument 
suggests the Longfellow who wrote 
''There was a little girl, who had a 
little curl," rather than the author of 
Evangeline. But if not of poetic ef- 
fect, the bust is satisfactory as a fine 
type of American manhood, so I 
smiled back at it, and passed on. 

Then, by chance, I turned into 
the South Transept. 

It was about five o'clock on a mid- 
summer afternoon, the hour, as I 
have often since proved, when the 



ii8 Ube Bmilp ]£mmtns papers 

spell of the Poets' Corner is most 
potent — the hour when a prismatic 
shaft of sunlight strikes exactly on 
the marble forehead of Burns, and 
flickering sun-rays light up the face 
of Southey. There, above the mortal 
remains of Henry Irving, I stood, 
and as I looked up, I knew that at 
last Westminster Abbey and I were 
at one. 

For I saw Shakespeare. 

It was not the emotional atmos- 
phere of the place, for that had not 
as yet affected me. It was not his- 
toric association, for I knew Shake- 
speare's bones did not rest there. It 
was not the inherent, artistic worth 
of the sculptured figure, for I knew 
that it has never been looked upon as 
a masterpiece, and that Walpole, or 
somebody, called it "preposterous." 



Ube %iQbt on Burns's :fiSro w 1 1 9 

But it was Shakespeare, and from his 
eyes there shone all the wonder, the 
beauty, and the immortality of his 
genius. 

I am told the whole monument is 
wrong in composition and in execution, 
but that is merely 

A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, — 
Its body, so to speak; its soul is right. 

Or at least it was to me, and from that 
moment I felt at home in Westminster 
Abbey. 

Without leaving the United States, 
I could have found a more magnifi- 
cent statue of Shakespeare in our 
own Library of Congress, but no other 
representation of him, in paint or 
stone, has ever portrayed to my mind 
the personality of the poet as does the 
Abbey monument. 



I20 Ube Bmilp Bmmtns papers 

I invited emotions and they ac- 
cepted with thanks. They came in 
crowds, rushing, and soon I was un- 
quahfiedly certain that I would rather 
be dead in Westminster Abbey than 
aUve out of it. Having reached this 
important decision, I broke off my 
emotions at their height and went 
home. 

The next day, as the sunUght touched 
Burns's uphfted brow, I was there 
again, and the next, and the next. 

The first impressions being com- 
fortably over, Shakespeare and I be- 
came very good friends, without the 
necessity for heaving breast and sup- 
pressed tears on my part. 

I had affable feelings, too, toward 
many of the other great and near-great. 
It amused me to learn how many 
succeeded in getting into the Abbey 



U\)c Xigbt on Burns's Brow 121 

by the mere accident of dying while 
there was plenty of room. 

John Gay, they tell me, is one of the 
interlopers, and his epitaph. 

Life is a jest and all things show it; 
I thought so once, but now I know it, 

is dubbed irreverent. 

But to my mind the irreverence is 
not in the sentiment, but in the fact 
that it is placed upon his tomb, the 
responsibility therefore, even though 
Gay requested it, lying with his sur- 
vivors. Surely the man who wrote 
Trivia is as much entitled to honor 
as many others whose virtues are set 
forth in stone. 

But if any one is disturbed by 
Gay's irreverence, he has only to step 
through the door which is close at 
hand, into the little chapel of St. Faith. 



122 XTbe Bmil^ Bmmtns papers 

For some indefinable reason, this 
chapel breathes more the spirit of 
reverence and holiness than any other 
in the Abbey. There is no especial 
beauty of decoration here, but he who 
can enter the solemn little room with- 
out putting up the most fervent prayer 
of his life must be of an unresponsive 
nature indeed. 

It did not seem to me inharmonious 
to visit the Chapels of the Sanctuary 
in charge of a verger. The Abbey 
guide is also a philosopher and friend. 
His intoned information is pleasantly 
in keeping with the chiselled epitaphs, 
and his personality is invariably de- 
lightful; and he so dominates the 
group of tourists he conducts that 
they often show signs of almost human 
intelligence. The guide answers ques- 
tions, not perfunctorily, but with an 



Ube %iQbt on Burns's Brow 123 



air of persorxal interest. To be sure, 
he passes lightly over many of the 
most impressive figures and proudly 
exhibits the fearsome Death who jabs 
a dart at Lady Nightingale, while 




He so dominates the group of tourists he conducts that 
they often show signs of almost human intelligence. 

her husband politely endeavors to 
protect her. But after becoming ac- 
quainted with the chapels one may 
return on free days and visit, unes- 
corted, the tomb of Sir Francis Vere. 



124 Ube 3£mtl^ Bmmtns papers 

The Waxen Effigies greatly took 
my fancy. Hidden away in an upper 
room, they are well worth the extra 
fee which it costs to see them. The 
verger describes them with a show 
of real affection, and indeed, I felt 
strangely drawn to the ghastly pup- 
pets, which are, undoubtedly, very 
like the kings and queens they repre- 
sent. William and Mary are easily 
lodged in a case b}^ themselves, and 
their brocades and velvets and real 
laces are beautiful to look upon, though 
stiffened by age and dirt. Elizabeth 
is a terror, and Charles the Second 
a horror, but vastly fascinating in their 
weird dreadfulness. Again and again 
I returned to my waxen friends, and 
found that they gave me more historic 
atmosphere than their biographies or 
tombs. 



Ube Xlgbt on Burns's Brow 125 

Hanging round the outside of the 
Abbey, I one day stumbled into St. 
Margaret's. The window is wonder- 
ful, of course, but I was more in- 
terested in remembering that here Mr. 
Pepys married the wife of whom he 
later naively chronicled: 

''She finds, with reason, that in the 
company of other women that I love, 
I do not value her or mind her as I 
ought." 

Having seen the church where Pepys 
was married, I felt an impulse to visit 
the house where he died. But I was 
relieved rather than otherwise to learn 
that no trace of the house now remains. 

And, anyway; the house where he 
died was n't the house where he 
made the pathetic entry in his Diary: 

"Home, and, being washing day, 
dined upon cold meat." 




Londoners have no definiteness of 
any sort. Their most striking trait 
is, paradoxically, a vague uncertainty, 
and this is seen in everything con- 
nected with London, from the weather 
to the gauzy, undecided, wavering 
scarfs which the women universally 
wear. 

Indeed I do not know of anything 
126 



Certain Social XHncertaintles 1 2 7 

that so perfectly represents the men- 
tahty of an Englishwoman as these 
same uncertain morsels of drapery. 

This state of things is doubtless 
founded on a logical topographical 
fact. Baedeker states that the city 
of London is built on a tract of un- 
dulating clay soil, and the foundation 
of the average Londoner's mind seems 
to be of equal instability. 

I have learned from the recent 
newspapers that, owing to these la- 
mentable subsoil conditions, Saint 
Paul's Cathedral is even now cracking 
and crumbling, and parallel cases may 
sometime be noted among the great 
minds of the Britons. 

I trust this will not be mistakenly 
thought to mean any disparagement 
to the British mind, whether great 
or small. It is, I am sure, a matter of 



128 Ube iBmil^ lEmmins papers 

taste; and the English people prefer 
their waver ingness of brain, as the 
Pisan Tower prefers to lean. 

The result of this state of things is, 
naturally, a lack of a sense of pro- 
portion, and an absolute ignorance 
of values. 

And it is this that makes it im- 
possible, or at least improbable, to 
generalize about the manners and 
customs of London's polite society; 
though indeed anything so uncertain 
as their society ways can scarcely 
be called customs. 

I received one morning from Mrs. 
C. a hastily- written note of invitation 
to dine with her that same evening. 

''Quite informally," the note said, 
"and afterward," it went on, "we 
will drop in at Lady Sutherland's." 

As I had learned that "quite in- 



Certain Social XHncertainties 1 29 

formally" meant anything its writer 
chose it to mean, I was uncertain as 
to the formality of the function, and, 




Why, in social importance, she *s only next to the King! " 



having no idea who Lady Sutherland 
might be, I asked information of a 
casual caller. 



I30 



Ube lEmil^ Bmmtns ipapers 



**Who is she?'* was the response, 
*' why, in social importance, she 's only 
next to the King! that's all! She's 




And so for the informal dinner I arrayed myself. 

the Duchess of Sutherland. She lives 
in Stafford House. You may not be 
familiar with Stafford House, but it 



Certatn Social 'Clncertalnttes 1 3 1 

is on record that when Queen Vic- 
toria was there, calHng on a former 
Duchess of Sutherland, she took her 
leave with the remark, '' I will now 
go from your palace to my humble 
home, ' ' referring to her own residence 
in Buckingham. 

I was dumfounded! To be invited 
to Stafford House in that careless way, 
and to have the Duchess of Suther- 
land mentioned casually as Lady vSuth- 
erland, — well! 

And so for the informal dinner I 
arrayed myself in the most elaborate 
costume in my wardrobe. 

Nor was I overdressed. The in- 
formal dinner proved to be a most 
pompous function, and after it we 
were all whisked into carriages, and 
taken to the reception at Stafford 
House. 



132 Ubc lEmtlp JEmmtns ipapers 

Once inside of the beautiful palace 
I ceased to wonder at Queen Victoria's 
remark. x\dmitted to be the most 
beautiful of all English private man- 
sions, Stafford House seemed to my 
American inexperience far more won- 
derful than Aladdin's palace could 
possibly have been. • 

The magnificent Entrance Hall, with 
its branching staircase and impressive 
gallery, seemed an appropriate setting 
for the beautiful Duchess, who stood 
on the staircase landing to greet her 
guests. Robed in billows of white 
satin, and adorned with what seemed 
to me must be the crown jewels, the 
charming, gracious lady was as simple 
and unaffected of manner as any 
American girl. vShe ' greeted me with 
a sincerity of welcome that had 
not lost its charm by having al- 



Certain Social XHncertainties 133 



ready been accorded to thousands of 
others. 

• Then, a mere atom of the thronging 
multitude, I was swept on by the 
guiding hands of belaced and be- 
powdered lackeys, and, quite in keep- 
ing with the unexpectedness of all 
things in London, I found myself 
suddenly embarked on a sightseeing 
tour. But this was a sort of sight- 
seeing toward which I felt no objec- 
tion. To be jostled by thousands, 
all arrayed in costumes and jewels 
that were sights in themselves; to 
visit not only the great picture gallery 
of Stafford House, but the smaller 
aj)artments, rarely shown to visitors; 
to be treated by guests and atten- 
dants as an honored friend of the 
family and not as an intruder; all 
these things made me thoroughly 



134 Ube i£mi\^ lEmmtns papers 



enjoy what would otherwise have been 
a sightseeing bore. 

It was a marvellous pageant, and to 
stand looking over the railing of the 
high balcony at the crush of vague- 
expressioned lights of London society, 
drifting slowly up the staircase in 
their own impassive way, was to me 
a " Sight Which Should on No Account 
be Omitted." 

With a sort of chameleonic tend- 
ency, I involuntarily acquired a sim- 
ilar air, and like one in a dream I was 
introduced to celebrities of all degrees. 
Authors of renown, artists of repute, 
soldiers of glorious record, all were 
presented in bewildering succession. 

Their demeanor was invariably 
gracious, kindly, and charming; they 
addressed me as if intensely interested 
in my well-being, past, present, and 



Certain Social XHncertalnttes 135 

future. And yet, combined with their 
warm interest, was that indefinite, 
preoccupied, waveringness of expres- 
sion, that made me feel positive if 
I should suddenly sink through the 
floor the speaker would go on talking 
just the same, quite unaware of my 
absence. 

The feast prepared for this grand 
army of society was on a scale 
commensurate with the rest of the 
exhibition. 

Apparently, whoever was in charge 
had simply provided all there was in 
the world of everything; and a guest 
had merely to mention a preference 
for anything edible, and it was im- 
mediately served to him. 

The Londoners of course, being quite 
imaware what they wanted to eat, 
vaguely suggested, one thing or another 



136 Ube iBmil^ Bmmins papers 

at random; and the vague waiters, 
apparently knowing the game, brought 
them something quite different. These 
viands the Londoners consumed with 
satisfaction; but in what was un- 
mistakably a crass ignorance of what 
they were eating. 

All this fascinated me so that I 
greatly desired to try experiments, 
such as sprinkling their food thickly 
with red pepper or putting sugar in 
their wine. I have not the slightest 
doubt that they would have calmly 
continued their repast, without the 
slightest suspicion of anything wrong. 

The air of the ''passive patrician'* 
of London society is unmistakable, 
inimitable, and absorbingly interest- 
ing; and never did I have a better 
opportunity to observe it than at 
the beautiful reception at Stafford 



Certain Social IHncertainttes 1 3 7 

House to which I was invited, "quite 
informally." 

In contrast to this, and as a fine 
example of the Londoner's utter ab- 
sence of a sense of proportion, listen 
to the tale of a lady who called on me 
one day. 

I had met her before, but knew 
her very slightly. vShe was exceed- 
ingly polite, and well-bred, and of 
very formal manner. 

The purpose of her call was to 
invite me to her house. She definitely 
stated a date ten days hence, and 
asked if I would enjoy a bread-and- 
milk supper. ** For we are plain folk," 
she said, ''and do not entertain on an 
elaborate scale." 

I accepted with pleasure, and she 
went politely away. 

But I was not to be fooled by inti- 



138 '^l^c Bmtl^ Bmmtns papers 

mations of informality. ''Bread and 
milk," indeed! that, I well knew, was 
a euphonious burlesque for a high 
tea if not a sumptuous dinner. I 
remembered that she had called per- 
sonally to invite me; that she asked 
me ten days before the occasion; and 
that the hour, seven o'clock, might 
mean anything at all. 

Therefore, when the day came, I 
donned evening costume, called a han- 
som, and started. 

I had never been to the house be- 
fore, and on reaching it found myself 
confronted by a high stone wall and a 
broad wooden door. 

Pushing open the latter, I doubt- 
fully entered, and seemed to be in a 
large and somewhat neglected garden 
filled with a tangle of shrubs, vines, 
and flowers. Magnificent old trees 



Certain Social mncettainties 139 

drooped their branches low over the 
winding paths; rustic arbors, covered 
with earwiggy vines, would have de- 
lighted Amy March; here and there a 
broken and weather-beaten statue of 
stone or marble poked its head or its 
headlessness up through the wandering 
branches. 

I started uncertainly along the most 
promising of the paths, and at last 
came in sight of a house. 

A picturesque affair it was. A stair- 
case ran up on the outside, and a tree, 
— ^an actual tree — came up through the 
middle of the roof. It was like a 
small, tall cottage, almost covered 
with rambling vines, and surrounded 
by an irregular, paved court. 

From an inconspicuous portal my 
hostess advanced to greet me. She 
wore a summer muslin, simply made, 



I40 Ubc Bmtli? l£mmins papers 

and I promptly felt embarrassed be- 
caiise of my stunning evening gown. 

Her welcome was most cordial, and 
expressive of beaming hospitality. 

'' You must enter by the back door, " 
she explained, ''as the vines have 
grown over the trellis, so that we 
cannot get around them to the front 
door to enter ; though of course we can 
go out at it. But this side of the 
house is more picturesque, anyway. 
Do you not think it delightful?" 

A bit bewildered, I was ushered 
into a room, strange, but most inter- 
esting. It contained a mantel and 
fireplace which had been originally 
in Oliver Goldsmith's house, and which 
was a valuable gem, both intrinsi- 
cally and by association. The other 
fittings of the room were quite in 
harmonv with this unique possession. 



Certain Social 'Clncertainties 141 

and showed experienced selection, and 
taste in arrangement. The next room, 
in the centre of the house, was the 
one through which the tree grew. 
Straight up, from floor to ceihng, the 
magnificent trunk formed a noble col- 
umn, around which had been built 
a somewhat undignified table. 

Another room was entirely furnished 
with wonderful specimens of old Span- 
ish marquetry — such exquisite pieces 
that it seemed unfair for one person to 
own them all. Any one of them would 
have been a gem of any collection. 

My friend was a charming hostess; 
and when her husband appeared, he 
proved not only a charming host, 
but a marvellous conversationalist. 

So engrossed did we all become 
in talking, so quick were my friends 
at repartee, so interesting the tales 



142 XTbe lEmil^ lEmmins papers 

they told of their varied experiences, 
that the time sUpped away rapidly, 
and the quaint old clock, which was a 
gem of some period or other, chimed 
eight before any mention had been 
made of the evening meal. 

''Why, it 's after supper-time!" ex- 
claimed my hostess,' ''let us go to the 
dining-room at once." 

The dining-room was another revela- 
tion. One corner was occupied by 
a huge, high-backed angle-shaped seat 
of carved wood, which carried with 
it the atmosphere of a ruined cathe- 
dral or a Hofbrauhaus. The latter 
effect was perhaps due to the sturdy 
oaken table which had been drawn 
into the corner, convenient to the 
great settee. 

After we were seated, a maid sud- 
denly appeared. She was garbed in 



(Tertaln Social mncertainttes 143 



a gorgeous and elaborate costume 

which seemed to be the perfection of 

a peasant's holiday attire. Huge gold 

earrings and strings of 

clinking beads were worn 

with a confection of 

bright-colored satin and 

cotton lace, which would 

have been conspicuous in 

the front row of a comic 

opera chorus. 

If you'll believe me, 
that Gilbert and Sullivan 
piece of property brought 
in and served, with neatness and de- 
spatch, a meal which consisted solely 
of bread and milk! 

The bowls were of Crown Derby, 
the milk in jugs of magnificent old 
ware, and the old silver spoons were 
beyond price. 




144 Ube iBmil^ lEmmins papers 

Yet so accustomed had I become to 
unexpectedness, and so imbued was 
I with the spirit of surprise that 
haunted the whole place, that the 




I ate my bread and milk contentedly and in large 
quantities. 

proceeding seemed quite rational, and 
I ate my bread and milk contentedly 
and in large quantities. 

There was no other guest, but I 
shall never forget the delight of that 



Certain Social IHncertatnties 145 

supper. Never have I seen a more 
innate and beautiful hospitality; never 
have I heard more delightfully witty 
conversation; never have I been so 
fascinated by an experience. 

And so if Londoners choose to 
scribble a hasty note inviting one 
carelessly to a reception at Stafford 
House, and if they see fit to make a 
personal call far in advance to ask 
one to a bread-and-milk supper, far be 
it from me to object. But I merely 
observe, in passing, that they have 
no sense of proportion, at least in 
their ideas of the formality demanded 
by social occasions. 










W^^h-mk^,C\i 



Pfflfh 







^i, -U-, 



m 



Jl Szntimzntal Journey 



I SUPPOSE every one experiences 
sudden moments of self-revelation that 
come without rhyme or reason, like a 
thunderbolt out of a clear sky : revela- 
tions that make clear in one illumi- 
native flash conditions and motives 
that have been tangled in a vague 
obscurity of doubt. 

i46 



H Sentimental Journey 147 

It was when such an instantaneous 
radiance of mental vision came to me 
I reaHzed at once why I had come to 
England. It was simply and only 
that I might visit Stratford-on-Avon. 

Nor was this pilgrimage to be lightly 
undertaken. Well I knew that the 
position Shakespeare occupied in my 
lists of hero-worship demanded that 
a fitting tribute of emotion be dis- 
played at sight of such material 
memorials as were preserved at his 
birthplace. 

Moreover, I knew that, whatever 
might be my sense of reverential 
homage, in me the power of emotional 
demonstration did not abound. 

But it is ever my custom, when 
possible, to supply or amend such 
lacks as I may note in my nature, by 
any available means. 



148 Ube Bmtip Bmmins papers 

And what could be wiser than 
when going on such an important 
journey, and where I knew my own 
powers would fall short of an im- 
perative requirement, to take with 
me some one who should adequately 
supplement my shortcomings? 

Being of a methodical nature, I 
have my friends as definitely classi- 
fied and as neatly pigeon-holed as my 
old letters. Mentally running over 
my collection of available companions, 
I stopped at Sentimental Tommy, 
knowing I need look no further. 

Of course Sentimental Tommy was 
not his real name, but it is my cus- 
tom to bestow upon my friends such 
titles as seem to me appropriate or 
descriptive. 

Sentimental Tommy, then, w^as the 
only man in the world, so far as I 



H Sentimental Journey 149 

knew, who would make a perfect 
associate for a day in Stratford. His 
especial qualifications were a chame- 
leonic power of adaptability, an in- 
stant and sympathetic comprehension 
of mood, an unbounded capacity for 
sentiment, and a genius for comrade- 
ship. He was also a man to whom 
one could say ''come, and he cometh," 
without any fuss about it. 

The date being arranged, I turned 
to my Baedeker and was deeply de- 
lighted to discover that we must take 
a train from Euston Station. For 
it seemed that the wonderful col- 
umned fagade of Euston was the only 
appropriate exit from London, when 
one's destination was Stratford. I 
had hoped that our route might cause 
us to pass through Upper Tooting, 
as, next to Stratford, this was to me 



I50 Zhc JEmil'S JEmmins papers 

the most interesting name in my 
little red book. I know not why, but 
Upper Tooting has always possessed 
for me a strange fascination and, 
though it sounds merely like the high 
notes of a French horn, yet my in- 
tuition tells me that it is full of deep 
and absorbing interest. 

Sentimental Tommy met me at 
Euston Station, and bought tickets 
for Stratford as casually as if it had 
been on the Pennsylvania Railroad. 
Tommy was in jubilant spirits that 
morning, with the peculiar kind of 
international triumph which comes 
only to an American who has attained 
some especial favour of the English. 
Gleefully he told me of his great luck: 
Only that morning he had been kicked 
by the King's cat ! An early stroll 
past Buckingham Palace and along 



H Sentimental 5ournei? 1 5 r 

Constitution Hill had resulted in an 
interview with the royal feline, and 
the above-mentioned honorable result 




Kicked by the King's cat. 

had been achieved. My observation to 
the effect that I didn't know that 
cats kicked, was met by the simple 
statement that this cat did, — a 
then we went on to Stratford. 



1 5 2 XTbe Bmil^ lEmmlns ipapers 

The ride being in part through the 
same country that I had traversed 
when coming to London, I felt quite 
at home in my surroundings; and 
we chatted gayly of everything under 
the sun except the immortal hero 
of our pilgrimage. 

That 's what I like about Tommy 
— he has such a wonderful intuitive 
sense of conversational values. And 
though his obsession by Shakespeare 
is precisely the same as my own, and 
though he is himself a Bartletfs Concord- 
ance in men's clothing, yet I knew, for 
a surety, that he would quote no line 
from the poet through the entire 
day. 

As we had neither of us ever been 
in Stratford before, we left the train 
at the station and paced the little 
town with an anticipation that was 



H Sentimental 5ournep 1 5 3 



like a blank page, to be written on 
by whatever might happen next. 

Trusting to Tommy's instinct, we 
asked no questions of guidance, and 
started off at random, on a nowise 
remarkable street. It was an affable 
August day, and our gait was much 
like that of a snail at full gallop; 
yet before we turned the first corner 
tears stood in my eyes,— though 
whether caused by the thrill of be- 
ing on vShakespeare's ground, or the 
reflection of Tommy's discernibly sup- 
pressed emotion, I 've no idea. 

But for pure delightfulness of sen- 
sation it is difficult to surpass that 
aimless wandering through Stratford, 
with a subconsciousness of what was 
awaiting us. 

In London, historical associations 
crop up at every step; but, though 



154 TTbe 3£milp Brnmins papers 

pointing backward, each points in a 
different direction, and so they form a 
great semicircular horizon which be- 
comes misty and vagiie in the distance. 
This is restful, and gives one a mere 
sense of blurred perspective. But 
Stratford is definite and coherent. 
Everything in it, njaterial or other- 
wise, points sharply back to the one 
figure, and the converging rays meet 
with a suddenness that is dazzling and 
well-nigh stunning. 

Stratford is reeking with dramatic 
quality, and a sudden breath of its 
atmosphere makes for mental un- 
balance. 

''Don't take it so hard," said 
Tommy, with his gentle smile; ''this 
is really the worst of it, — except per- 
haps one other bit, — and it will soon 
be over." 



H Sentimental Sournei? 1 5 5 



*'Why, we haven't begun yet," 
said I, in astonishment. 

''You're thinking of the Birth- 
place, the Memorial, and the Church. 
You ought to know that we can see, 
absorb, and assimilate those things in 
just about one minute each. It is 
this that counts,— this, and the foot- 
path across the fields to Shottery." 
"And the River," I added. 
"Yes, and the River." 
Following his unerring instincts, 
Tommy's steps led us, though per- 
haps not by the most direct route, 
to the Shakespeare Hotel. 

"You know," he said, "intending 
visitors to Stratford are invariably 
instructed by returned visitors to go 
to the Red Lion Inn, or Red Bear, or 
Red something; but instinct tells me 
that this hostelry has a message for us. " 



156 ZTbe Bmil^ Bmmins papers 

Nor was the message only that of 
the typical English luncheon which 
the dining-room afforded. There were 
many other points about that hotel 
which impressed me with peculiar 
delight, from the quaint entrance hall 
to the garden at the back. 

Each room is named for one of 
Shakespeare's plays, and has the title 
over its door. After hesitating be- 
tween Hamlet and Twelfth Night, I 
finally concluded that should I ever 
spend a whole summer in Stratford, 
which I fully intend to do, I should 
take possession of the delightful, 
chintz-furnished Love's Labour '5 Lost. 

The library was a continuation of fas- 
cination. A strange-shaped room whose 
length is half a dozen times its width, it 
seemed a place to enter but not to leave. 

However, one does not visit Strat- 



H Sentimental 5ovirnei? 1 5 7 



ford for the delights of hotel-life, 
and, luncheon over, we again began 
our wanderings. 

By good luck we chanced first upon 
the Memorial Theatre. The good luck 
lay in the fact that, having seen the 
outside of this Tribute to Genius, we 
had no desire to enter. It was re- 
mindful of a modern New England 
high school building, and, though we 
knew it contained authentic portraits 
and first folios, it had little to do with 
our Shakespeare. 

We paused at the Monument, and 
commented on the cleverness of the 
happy thought that provided Philo- 
sophy to fill up the fourth side of 
Shakespeare's genius. 

And then we went on to Henley 
Street and the house where Shake- 
speare was born. 



158 Ube lEmtl^ lEmmlns papers 

We entered the narrow door-way 
into the old house, which shows so 
plainly the frantic endeavor at preser- 
vation, and we climbed the stairs to 
the room where the poet was born. 
The air was smoky with memory 
and through it loomed the rather 
smug bust, its weight supported by a 
thin-legged, inadequate table. 

With Tommy I was not troubled 
by the objectionable thought of ''first 
impressions." In the first moment 
we took in, with one swift glance, the 
fireplace, the walls, the windows, and 
the few scant properties, and after 
that our attitude was as of pilgrims 
returning to an oft- visited shrine. 

In the room back of the Birthroom, 
the one that looks out over the garden, 
sat the old custodian of the place. He 
was a large handsome man with none 



H Sentimental Journey 



159 



of the doddering, mumbling effects of 
his profession. 




My thoughts all with Mary Arden 

He looked at me keenly, as I stood 
looking out of the back window, my 
thoughts all with Mary Arden, and 
he said, in a low voice, ''You love 
him, too," and I said, *'Yes. " 



t6o Ube Bmilp Bmmins papers 

A little shaken by the Birthplace, 
but of no mind to admit it, we went 
gayly through the Stratford streets, 
passing groups of Happy Villagers, 
and so suddenly did we meet the 
Avon, that we almost fell into it. 
We chanced upon tvv^o broad marble 
steps that seemed . to be the termi- 
nal of a macadamized path to the 
river. 

The Avon was using the lower of 
these two steps, so we sat on the upper 
one and watched the children sailing 
boats upon the Memorial Stream. 
This brought to my mind Mr. Mabie's 
word picture of Shakespeare at four 
years old, and for a time the baby 
Shakespeare took precedence over the 
mian poet. 

It is scarcely fair that the 
Avon should be so beautiful of 



H Sentimental Jonrnei? 



i6i 



itself, for this, with its vicarious inter- 
ests, makes it too blessed among 
rivers. 




At the chancel. 



Then we went to Holy Trinity. 
The approach, plain as way to parish 
church, seemed like a solemn cere- 



i62 Zbc Bmilp Bmmins papers 

mony, and, as Tommy afterward ad- 
mitted, "it got on his nerves." 

Unbothered by verger or guide, ob- 
livious to tourists, if any were there, 
we walked straight to the chancel, 
looked at Shakespeare's grave, — and 
walked away. 

It was fortunate for me at this 
moment that I had taken Sentimen- 
tal Tommy with me; for, as his emo- 
tions are so much more available than 
mine, so he has them under much 
better control. 

I had expected to look around the 
church a bit, but Tommy led me 
away, through the old graveyard, 
to the low wall by the river. And 
there, under the waving old trees, 
we sat until we could pick up our lost 
three hundred years. 

Back through the town we went; 



H Sentimental 5ournep 



163 



and I must needs stop here and there 
at the h'ttle shops, which, with their 
modern attempts at quaintness, dis- 
play rehcs and antiques, more or less 
genuine. 




Few of their wares appealed to me, 
so I contented myself with a tiny 
celluloid bust of Shakespeare, which 
by chance presented the familiar feat- 



i64 Ube JEmilp Bmmins papers 

ures with an expression of real power 
and intellect. It was strange to find 
this poet face on a cheap trinket, 
and with deep thankfulness of heart 
I possessed myself of my one souvenir 
of Stratford. 

It is directly opposed to ail the 
instincts of Tommy's nature to ask 
instructions in matters which he feels 
that he ought to know intuitively. 

And so, upon his simple announce- 
ment, *' This is the footpath across the 
fields to Shottery, — ^to Anne Hatha- 
way's Cottage," we started. 

As Tommy had hinted, during our 
walk from the station, there would be 
another bit of the real thing; and 
this was it. The walk across the 
fields was crowded with impulses that 
came perilously near emotional in- 
tensity. But from such appalling fate 



H Sentimental Journey 165 

we were saved by our sense of humor. 
One cannot give way to emotion if 
one is conscious of its humorous as- 
pect. And we agreed that as the 
path across the field had been here 
ever since Shakespeare trod it, and as 
it would in all probability remain for 
some time in the future, the mere 
coincidence that we were traversing 
it at this particular moment was 
nothing to be thrilled about. 

And yet, — it was the path from Strat- 
ford to Shottery, and we were there! 

But it was a longer path than we 
had thought, and the practicality which 
is one of the chief ingredients of 
Tommy's sentiment moved him to 
look at his watch and announce that 
we would have to turn back at once, 
if we would catch the last train to 
London. 



i66 Ube Bmllp JEmmlns papers 

Not entirely disheartened at leaving 
Anne Hathaway's cottage unviwsited, 
— for we both well knew the value of 
the unattained, — ^we turned, and wan- 
dered back to the station just in time 
for the late afternoon train. 

And that was why we did n't dis- 
cover until some time afterward that 
we had taken the wrong road across 
the fields; and that, as we imagined 
our faces turned toward it, Anne 
Hathaway's cottage was getting fur- 
ther and further away to our left. 




To be in London is to be in Society. 
Each invitation accepted brings two 
more, with an ultimate result like that 
of the old-fashioned "chain letter." 

Having thoughtlessly begun a social 

career, I suddenly found my London 

carpeted with crimson velvet. And 

by insidious processes, and by reason 

of the advance of summer, the velvet 
167 



i68 Zbc lEmllp lEmmtns papers 

carpet magically transformed itself into 
country 'house lawns, the only differ- 
ence being that the green velvet carpet 
was of a richer pile. 

I had determined to accept no 
country-house invitations. The some- 
what ample length and breadth of 
London itself was all the England I 
desired, and this I absorbed as fast 
as I could; my only difficulty being 
that I could not live nimbly enough. 

But, like the historic gentleman who 
* loved but was lured away," I was 
invited to a vSaturday afternoon gar- 
den party in the country, and, under 
pressure of argument by some cher- 
ished friends, I consented to go. 

The Garden Party, unlike Sheridan, 
was seventy miles away; but I learned 
that it would be a typical English Gar- 
den Party of the three-volume sort, 



Hll in a (Barben jfatr 169 

and though it necessitated a week- 
end stay, and concomitant luggage 
bothers, I stoically prepared to see it 
through. 

I was to meet my cherished friends, 
who were none other than the Wag 
O' The World and his Wife, at Vic- 
toria Station. 

This, of itself, was a worth-while 
experience, for meeting friends at a 
London station is always exciting. 
To begin with, they are never there. 
You rush madly about from one 
ridiculous, inadequate ticket wicket 
to another, — from one absurd, in- 
adequate waiting-room to another, — ■ 
and then you think that after all 
they must have said Charing Cross. 

Then you forget them, and become 
absorbed in watching the comic opera 
crowd of week-enders, in their neat 



I70 Ube }£mtl^ JEmmins papers 

travelling-suits of beflounced muslin, 
frilly lace scarfs, and stout boots. 

Wandering about in the luggage- 
room, I suddenly chanced upon my 
friends calmly sitting on their own 




The comic opera crowd of week-enders. 

boxes, and looking as if they had been 
evicted for not paying their rent. 
And such a multiplicity of luggage 
as they had! I had contented myself 
with one box of goodly proportions, 



Hll In a Garden jf atr 



171 



but my cherished friends had no less 
than twelve pieces of the varying 
patterns of enamelled blackness and 
pig - skinned brownness which only 
England knows. 




Looking as if they had been evicted for not paying 
their rent. 



' ' Why sit ye here idle ? " I demanded. 

''We await the psychical moment," 
responded the Wag O' The World; 
*' you see they won't stick our luggage 



172 'Q^be iBmil^ Bmmtns papers 

sooner than ten minutes before train 
time, and they 're not allowed to 
stick it later than five minutes before 
train time. The game is to catch 
a porter between those times." 

The game seemed not only difficult, 
but impossible, for the porters were 
not only elusive but for the most 
part invisible. Preoccupied - looking 
men strolled about with a handful of 
labels and a paste-pot, but could not 
be induced to decorate our luggage 
therewith. 

''The principle is all wrong!" I 
declared. ''It is absurd for one to 
be such a slave to one's luggage. 
vSomebody ought to invent a trunk 
with legs and intelligence, that would 
run after us, — instead of our running 
after it!" 

" Even that would not be necessary," 



Hll In a 6arben fair 173 

responded the Wag O* The World, 
in his mild way; "if somebody would 
only invent a porter with legs and 
intelligence, it would fulfil all re- 
quirements." 

Now this is the strange part. 

Though there were more than a 
thousand people waiting to have their 
luggage stuck (i. e,, labelled), and 
though there were but few of the 
invisible porters, yet eyerybody was 
properly stuck, and started when the 
train did! 

The next entertainment was the 
securing of an entire compartment 
for our party of three. This is always 
accomplished in England, but by many 
devious and often original devices. 

" I 've thought of a good plan, which 
I've never tried yet," observed the 
Wag O' The World, "to get a com- 



174 TTbe }£mtlp lEmmlnB papers 

partment to one's self. That is, to 
invent some collapsible rubber people, 
— ^like balloon pigs, you know, — that 
may be carried in the pocket, and 
blown up when necessary. Three or 
four of these, when blown up and 
placed in the various seats would fool 
any guard. And if .one were shaped 
like a baby, with a crying arrangement 
that would work mechanically, the 
others would not be needed." 

This plan was ingenious, but, like 
everything else in England, unneces- 
sary. It is one of the most striking 
characteristics of the English that 
nothing is absolutely necessary to 
their well-being or happiness. If any- 
thing is omitted or mislaid, it is not 
missed but promptly ' forgotten, and 
no harm done. 

After an hour or two of pleasant 



HU tn a (3ar^en ff air 175 



travel through the hop-poled scenery 
of Southeastern England, we reached 
a place with one of those absurd names 
which always suggest Edward Lear's 
immortal lyrics, where we must needs 
change cars. 

My Cherished Friends strolled along 
the length of the platform to the 
luggage van, and judiciously selected 
such boxes as they cared to claim; 
though I am sure they did not get 
all of their own, and acquired a few 
belonging to other passengers. I eas- 
ily picked out my own American 
trunk, and, surrounded by our spoil, 
we stood on the platform while the 
train wandered on. 

After a long, but by no means 
tedious, wait there appeared on the 
other side of the platform a toy rail- 
road train, so amateurish that it 



176 Ubc lEmil^ lEmmins papers 

looked like one drawn by a child on 
cv siaue. 

We were put into a box-stall, and 
locked in. The ridiculous little con- 
traption hobbled along its track, and 
finally stopped in the middle of a 
beautiful landscape, and we jumped 
out to become part of it. 

The barouche of our hostess awaited 
us, with still life in the shape of 
liveried attendants. A huge wagon 
awaited the luggage, which had mys- 
teriously dumped itself out of the 
train, and we were whisked away to 
the Garden Party. 

Partly to be polite, and partly 
because I could n't help it, I remarked 
on the marvellous beauty of the 
country. 

The Wag O' The World enthu- 
siastically agreed with me. " But, 



HU in a Garden ffatr 177 



Emily," he said, "if you could only 
see this same country in the spring! 
These lanes are walled on either side 
with the pink bloom of the may,— 
and the wild flowers . . ." 

Tears stood in the blue eyes of the 
Wag, at the mere thought of spring 
in Kent, and I realized at last why 
English poets have sometimes written 
poems about Spring. 

We passed through the village, one 
of those tiny hamlets which acquire 
merit only by age and local tradition. 
The Happy Villagers stared at us 
with just the correct degree of bu- 
colic curiosity, and we rolled on 
through the lodge gates, and along 
the winding, beautiful avenue to the 
house. In every direction stretched 
wide lawns of perfect grass, that 
probably acquired its uppish look 



1 78 TLbc JBmil^ iBmmins papers 

when William the Conqueror trod it. 

We were met by no humanity of 
our own stamp, but were shown to 
our room by benevolent-minded fac- 
totums, and gently advised to prepare 
for the Garden Party. 

With the exception of entertain- 
ments of a public nature, I have 
never seen so beautiful and elaborate 
an affair. The guests, to the number 
of two hundred, came from all the 
country round; some in equipages 
dripping with ancestral glory, and 
some in motor-cars reeking with mod- 
ern wealth. 

The women's costumes were of them- 
selves a study. The English woman's 
dress often inclines to the bizarre; 
and at a garden fete she lets herself 
loose in radiant absurdities, which 
she wears with the absolute self- 



Hll in a Garden ff atr 179 



satisfaction born of the knowledge 
that in the matter of feminine adorn- 
ment England is the land of the free 
and home of the brave. 

The Garden Party proceeded with 
the regularity of clock-work. The in- 
vitations read from four till six, and 
promptly at four the whole two 
hundred guests arrived. This occa- 
sioned no confusion, and the hostess 
greeted them with a neatness and 
despatch equalling that of our own 
Presidential receptions. 

The guests then conversed in ami- 
able groups on the lawn, while a band 
of musicians in scarlet and gold uni- 
forms played popular airs. 

All were then marshalled into a 
huge marquee, of dimensions exceed- 
ing our largest circus tent. Here, a 
Lucullian feast was served at small 



i8o Ube Bntil^ lEmmins papers 

tables, and the country gentry, in 
their vague, involuntary wa}^ amply 
satisfied their healthy English ap- 
petites. 

After the feast, the assemblage was 
rounded up into a compact audience, 
to witness the performance of a troupe 
of Pierrots. The antics of these Moun- 
tebanks, with accompanying songs 
and dances, were appreciatively ap- 
plauded, and then, as it was six 
o'clock, the assemblage dissolved and 
vanished, almost with the rapidity of 
a bursting bubble. 

To my easily flustered American 
mentality, it all seemed like a feat 
of magic; and I looked in amazement 
at my hostess who, after the departure 
of the last guest, was as composed 
and serene as if she had entertained 
but a single guest. And like the 



HU in a Garden ffatr iSi 

insubstantial pageant faded, it left 
not a rack behind. More magic dis- 
solved the tent, the band-stand, the 
Pierrots' platform, and all other in- 
criminating evidence, and then, with 
true English for get fulness, the Garden 
Party was a thing of the past, and 
dinner was toward. 

The house-party numbered forty, 
and, after exchanging the filmy finery 
of the garden garb for the more gor- 
geous regalia demanded by candle- 
light, the guests repaired to the stately 
dining-hall. Of course, repaired is the 
only verb of locomotion befitting the 
occasion. 

Sunday passed like a beautiful day- 
dream. The English have a great 
respect for the Sabbath day, and, 
perhaps as a reward for this, the 
weather on Sunday is usually perfect. 



i82 tlbe lEmtlp lEmmms papers 

It is not incumbent on guests to go 
to church, but it is considered rather 
nice of them to do so; especially if, 
as happened in this instance, the old 
church is on the estate where one is 
visiting. Nor is it any hardship to 
sit in an old carved high-backed pew, 
that has belonged ■ to the family for 
ages. 

Sabbath amusements are of a mild 
nature, one of the favorites being 
photography. English people have 
original ideas of posing, and any one 
who can invent a new mode of group- 
ing his subjects is looked upon as a 
hero. 

Aside from Lord Nelson's declara- 
tion, if there is one thing that England 
expects, it is Tea; and tea she gets 
every day. But of all the various 
modes of conducting the function, 



HU In a Gatben ff air 



183 



the out-of-door Tea at a country house 
is probably the most deHghtful. 

The appointments are the perfec- 
tion of wicker, china, and silver, but 
it is the local color and surrounding 
that count most. 




English people have original ideas of posing. 

I cease to wonder that the English 
are only vaguely interested in their 
viands, for who could definitely con- 
sider the flavor of tea when in full 



1 84 'C:be )£mUp lEmmtns papers 

view was a rising terrace leading to a 
magnificent old mansion of the cor- 
rect and approved period of archi- 
tecture, and covered with ivy that 
may have been planted by an His- 
torical Character? or, looking in an- 
other direction, one could perceive 
a formal garden, with fountain and 
sun-dial; another turn of the head 
brought into view a unique rose 
orchard, unmatched even in England; 
while toward the only point of the 
compass left, rolled hills and dales 
that made many an English landscape 
painter famous. 

Add to this the inconsequent and 
always delightful small-talk of English 
society, spiced here and there by their 
dreadful expletive, *'My word!" and 
enlivened by the English humor, 
which is, to those who care for it, 



Hll in a (Barren ffatr ^85 



the most truly humorous thing on 
earth,— and I, for one, am quite ready 
to concede that these conditions com- 
bine to make Afternoon Tea a Spangle 
of Existence. 



y Tfent and Tinged jibout 



A 



to Tvlanp Churches. ^^ 



rirLA— ii 




Miss Anna was certainly a godsend. 
It was due to her comprehension of 
the "human warious, " and her ex- 
perienced knowledge of London, that 
I was enabled to revisit places I had 
never seen before. 

When she calmly asked me to spend 
a day sightseeing in the "City," I 
gasped. But when she reminded me 

iS6 



IF Wicnt to /IDan^ Cburcbes 187 

that I ought to look once more on 
some of the old landmarks of Lon- 
don, I was flattered into a gracious 
acceptance. 

One soft, purry August morning we 
started out. I was supposed to be 
absolutely under her direction, but 
when she remarked casually that we 
would take a 'bus, I rebelled. 

**I have never been in or on the 
horrid things," I protested, ''and I 
never intend to!" 

But she only said, ''We '11 stand on 
the corner of Oxford Street, and wait 
for a City Atlas," and somehow I 
immediately felt quite accustomed to 
City Atlases, — and intuitively knew 
it would be a blue one, — ^but it was n't. 

Imitating Miss Anna's air of habitual 
custom, I swung myself aboard of 
the moving monster, and laboriously 



1 88 Ube Bmilp ]£mmins papers 

climbed the curving companion-way 
at the back. 




When she remarked casually that we would take a * bus, 
I rebelled. 



Once in our seats, it was not so bad ; 
though very like riding the whirlwind, 



ir Ment to /IDanp (TF^urcbes 189 

without being allowed to direct the 
storm. 

Miss Anna drew my attention to 
points of interest as we passed them. 
In her tactful way she humored my 
idiosyncrasy. She never said, ''On 
your right is the 'Salutation and Cat,* 
where Coleridge and Southey and Lamb 
used to congregate of a winter even- 
ing. " She said, instead, "Haven't 
you always thought 'Salutation and 
Cat,' the very dearest tavern in all 
London?" 

Nor when we came to the half- 
timbered houses of Holborn did she 
say, "Here lived Lamb's godfather, 
who was known to and visited by 
Sheridan." 

She said: "Don't you like Haw- 
thorne's way of putting these things? 
You remember how he tells us that 



I90 Ube Bmilp Bmmtns paperr 

on his first visit to London he went 
astray in Holborn, through an arched 
entrance, in a court opening inward, 
with a great many Sunflowers in full 
bloom." 

All this pleased me, as did also 
Bumpus's great book-shop, which is, 
I think, in this neighborhood. 

Another delightful pastime was ob- 
serving the signs over the shop doors. 
As the English are adept in the making 
of phrases, so are they especially 
happy in adjusting their callings to 
their names. 

Lest I be considered frivolous, I 
shall mention only two; but surely 
there could not be more appropriate 
names for dentists than two whose 
sign-boards proudly • announced Ship- 
ley Slipper, and, across the street from 
him, Mr. Strong- i'th' arm. 



IT Went to /iDanp Cburcbes 1 9 1 

We went on, absorbed in our view 
of kaleidoscopic London, until Miss 
Anna decreed that we go down to the 
ground again. There was no elevator 
as in the Flatiron Building, so we 
tumbled down the back stairs, and 
were thrown off. 

The sequence of the places we 
visited I do not remember, but they 
seemed to be mostly churches and 
taverns. 

St. Paul's was taken casually, as 
indeed it should be, being, like a 
corporation, without a soul. 

Exteriorly, and from a goodly dis- 
tance, St. Paul's is perfection. From 
the river, or from Parliament Hill, 
it is sympathetic and responsive. But 
inside it is a mere vastness of mosaic 
and gilding, peopled with shiny 
marbles of heroic size. There is an 



192 XTbe Bmil^ Bmmtns papers 

impressive grandeur of art, but no 
message for the spirit. It is magnifi- 
cent, hut it is not church. 

Miss Anna and I walked properly 
about the edifice, fortunately agreeing 
in our attitude toward it. 

From here, I think, she led me 
across something, and through some- 
thing and around something else, and 
then we were in St. Bartholomew's 
church. Being the oldest church in 
London, St. Bartholomew's is his- 
torically important, but it is interesting 
and delightful as well. The very air 
inside has been shut in there ever 
since the twelfth century, yet one 
breathes it normally, and enjoys the 
sudden backward transition. Had I 
the time, I could easily find an inclina- 
tion to walk every day round its 
ancient triforium. 



ir Ment to /IDan^ Cburcbes 193 



As we left the church, the Charter- 
house put itself in our way. Though 
other British subjects were educated 
at this school, it remains sacred to the 
memory of Thackeray. From here 
he wrote to his mother, '' There are but 
three hundred and seventy boys in 
this school, and I wish there were only 
three hundred and sixty-nine." But 
visitors to the Charter-house are glad 
that the three hundred and seventieth 
boy remained there, and stamped the 
whole place with his gentle memory. 
The atmosphere of the Charter-house 
is wonderfully calm; it does not con- 
note boys, but seems tranquilly im- 
bued with the later wisdom of the 
great men who spent their youthful 
days within its walls. 

The stranger in London has a 
decided advantage over the resi- 



13 



194 ^be lEmil^ jemmine papers 



dent, in that he can choose his 
heroes. 

A friend of mine who lives in Chelsea 
proudly assured me that he could 
throw a stone from his garden into 
Carlyle's! The point of his remark 
seemed to be not his superior marks- 
manship, but the proximity to the 
garden of a great man. Now, were 
I of the stone-throwing sex, there is 
many a dead hero at whose garden 
I should aim before I turned toward 
Carlyle's. But of course this was 
because my friend lived in Chelsea. 
Therefore the non-resident, not being 
confined to a locality, can throw imag- 
inary stones into any one's garden. 

A desultory discussion of this sub- 
ject caused Miss Anna to propose that 
our next stone be aimed at the garden 
of Dr. Samuel Johnson. 



1F Ment to /IDanig (Tburcbes 195 



So to the Cheshire Cheese we went. 

The imposing personaUty of Dr. 
Johnson, and the antiquity of the 
famous tavern, led me to anticipate 
great things; and I was sorely dis- 
appointed (as probably most visitors 
are) at the plamly spread table, the 
fearfully hard seats, and the trying 
umbrella-rack filled with sawdust. 

Of course we occupied the historic 
corner, where, according to the brass 
tablet, Dr. Johnson loved to linger; 
but two young American women whose 
tastes are not of the sanded floor and 
mulled ale variety cannot at a midday 
meal, whoop up much of the atmos- 
phere that probably ^surrounded the 
smoke-wreathed midnights of John- 
sonian revelry. 

Not that we did n't enjoy it, for we 
were of a mind to enjoy everything 



196 XTbe Bmtl^ Bmmlns papers 

that day; but the appreciation was 
entirely objective. Methodically we 
climbed the stairs and viewed all the 
rooms of the old, old house, and on the 




Of course we occupied the Historic Corner. 

top floor were duly shown by the 
guide the old arm-chair in which Dr. 
Johnson used to sit. A stout twine 
was tied across from arm to arm, that 



ir Ment to /IDan^ Gburcbes 197 



pilgrims might not further wear out the 
old cushion. When I, as an enormous 
jest, asked the guide to cut the string, 




When I . . . asked the guide to cut the string . . . 
he cheerfully did so. 

that I might sit in the historic chair, 
he cheerfully did so, and I considered 



igs Ube ]£mtl^ Bmmtns papers 

the fee well spent that allowed me to 
linger for a moment on the very dusty 
cushions of Dr. Johnson's own chair. 

I afterward learned that the string 
business was a fraud, and was renewed 
and cut again for each curious visitor. 
I accept with equanimity this clever 
ruse, but V m still wondering how they 
renew the dust. 

While we were doing Early Res- 
taurants Miss Anna said, "We must 
take in Crosby Place." 

This pleased me hugely, for I re- 
membered how Gloucester, in Richard 
the Third was everlastingly repairing 
to Crosby Place, and I desired to know 
what was the attraction. 

I found it interesting, but, lacking 
Gloucester, I shall not repair there 
often. To be sure, it is a magnificent 
house, Gothic, Perpendicular, and all 



ir Wicnt to /iCian^ Cburcbes 199 

that; the hangings and appointments 
are, probably, much as they used to 
be, but after all, I do not care greatly 
for eating among Emotions. 

Whereupon Miss Anna cheerfully 
proposed that we visit the Tower. 

''No," said I, with decision; and 
then, my mind still on Richard the 
Third, I quoted: ''I do not like the 
Tower, of any place." 

I *m not sure I should have been 
able so bravely to disclaim an interest 
in the Tower, had it not been that 
the night before I had heard a wise 
and prominent Londoner state the 
fact that he had never visited it. 

''No Londoner has ever been to the 
Tower," he declared. "We used to 
say that we intended to go some time 
or other, but now we don't even say 
that." 



200 XTbe lEmil^ lEmmtns papers 

I was greatly relieved to learn this, 
for I 'm positive that the Tower is 
hideous and uninteresting. As an al- 
ternative, I asked that we might visit 
the railway stations. 

Aside from the romance that is in- 
digenous to all railway stations, there 
are peculiar characteristics of the great 
London termini that are of absorbing 
interest. And so strong are the claims 
each puts forth for pre-eminence, it is 
indeed difficult to award a palm. 

Euston has its columns. Charing 
Cross its Tribute to Queen Eleanor, 
St. Pancras a spacious roominess, and 
Victoria a wofully-crowded and limited 
space. Each station has its own sort 
of people, and, though indubitably 
they must mingle upon occasion, yet 
the type of crowd at each station is 
invariably the same. 



ir TKaent to /IDan^ Cbiircbes 201 

And yet, after all, my heart goes 
back with fondest memories to Euston. 
Not the crowd, not even the atmos- 
phere, but a mysterious influence which 




A mysterious influence which emanates from those 
wonderful columns. 

emanates from those wonderful col- 
umns. Not only the sight of them 
as you approach from London, but 
the qtieer, almost uncanny way in 
which they permeate the whole place. 



202 Zbc lEmil^ Bmmins papers 

They follow you through the station 
and into the train, and not for many 
miles can you get out from under 
the presence of those perfect shapes. 

Coming into London, Cannon Street 
is a good station to choose, if your 
route permit, but going out, Euston 
or Charing Cross should, if possible, 
be selected. 

Before, after, or during, our station 
visits, we touched on a few more 
churches. 

The Temple Church proved a delight 
because of the bronze Knights peace- 
fully resting there. Miss Anna told 
me they were called Crusaders because 
they chose to lie with their legs crossed. 
This was probably true, for the position 
was maintained by all of them. Oliver 
Goldsmith is buried here, but I had no 
particular desire to throw a stone 



IT Ment to /IDan^ Cburcbes 203 

into his graveyard, and so we went 
on. Owing to a change of mood, we 
no longer rode on the 'buses, but took 
a hansom from one place to another. 
This was not as extravagant as it 
might seem, for, notwithstanding asser- 
tions to the contrary, one cannot ride 
enough in London cabs to make the 
bill of any considerable amount, at 
lea,st as compared to a New York cab 
bill. And Shakespeare averred that 
''nothing is small or great but by 
comparison. ' ' 

As our cab bumpily threaded its 
way along the crammed Strand, the 
bright-colored mass of humanity and 
traffic seemed to me the pre-eminent 
London. I wanted no more sight- 
seeing, I wanted no more historical 
association, I merely wanted to con- 
tinue this opportunit}^ for feasting 



204 Ube Bmil^ Bmmtns papers 

on real City London. I voraciously 
bit off large chunks of the atmosphere 
as we passed through it, which I am 
even yet digesting and assimilating. 

As a complement to this view of 
London, we suddenly decided to call 
on a friend for a cup of tea. A per- 
sonal, at-home tea would be a pleasant 
contrast to the publicity of our day. 

Deciding upon the coziest and home- 
liest tea-dispenser, we drove to Mrs. 
Todd's in Kensington. 

It is a great satisfaction to know that 
the unpromising portal of a London 
house will positively lead eventually 
to a delightful back garden, and tea. 

We were welcomed by our charming 
hostess in her pretty traihng sum- 
meriness, and were immediately trans- 
formed from whimsical sight-seers into 
sociable tea-drinkers. 



IT Ment to /IDan^ Cburcbes 205 

Though it was by no means a special 
occasion, the garden was bright with 
flowers and people, and the tea and 
cakes were served under the inevitable 
marquee. It was Mrs. Todd's weekly 
day at home, and the guests were all 
amiable and charming. A young wo- 
man with a phenomenal voice sang 
to us from the back parlor windows, 
and thereby gave a stimulus to the 
conversation. All was usual and or- 
thodox. Everybody listened politely 
to everybody's else chatter, and, ap- 
parently unhearing, answered at ran- 
dom, and quite often wrongly. 

It seemed to me that even in this 
land of bright flowers the blossoming 
plants were of unusually brilliant hues. 
As I took my departure I commented 
on this, and my hostess responded 
with a superb indifference: ""Really? 



2o6 



TLbc iBmil^ JBmmins papers 



yes, they are rather good ones. The 
nursery man fetched them early this 
afternoon, and after you are all gone. 




Really ? yes, they are rather good ones. 

he will come and carry them away"; 
and, if you please, those ridiculous 
plants were in pots, sunk into the 



ir Ment to /iDani? Cburcbcs 207 

earth, and giving all the effect of a 
beautiful growing garden! 

This fable teaches that our English 
sisters are not above the small bluffs 
more often ascribed to American 
femininity. 



XI 

jPiccadiUp Circus and its 
TJnvirons 




A FAVORITE game of mine in Lon- 
don was to walk until I became tired 
or lost or both, and then take a cab 
back home. 

Oftenest, the bright beckoning of 

Piccadilly allured me, and I strolled 

along that Primrose Path from Park 

Lane to Piccadilly Circus, my mind 

laid open like a fresh blotting-book, 
208 



ptccaMU^ ClrcuB anb Its lEnvtrons 209 

to receive whatever impress London 
might careless!}^ leave upon it. 

Such delightful people as I would 
see! 

Ladies, tricked out in pink filminess 
of raiment, ever striving to clutch 
one more handful of their frou-frou, 
as it waggishly eluded their grasp, 
and dawdled along the pavement be- 
hind them. 

Yet, strange to say, the flapping 
frilliness rarely becomes muddily be- 
draggled, as it would on a New York 
street; it merely achieves that palpable 
grayness which marks everything in 
London, from its palaces to its laun- 
dry work. 

The headgear of these same la- 
dies can be called nothing less than 
alarming. 

During the summer of which I 



2IO Ubc iBmil^ Bmmlns ipapers 

write, it was the whim to wear huge 
shapes of the mushroom or butter- 




The headgear of these same 

ladies can be called nothing 

less than alarming. 

bowl variety. These shapes, instead 
of being decorated with flowers or 



piccaMllp Circus anb its lEnvirons 211 

feathers, bore skilfully contrived fruits, 
that looked so like real ones I was 
often tempted to pluck them. Cher- 
ries and grapes were not so entirely 
novel, but peaches, pears, and in one 
instance a banana, seemed, at least, 
mildly ludicrous. I was rejoiced to 
learn that these fruits, being stuffed 
with cotton-wool, were not so weighty 
as they appeared; but they were 
indeed bulky, and crowded on to the 
hat in such quantities that it seemed 
more sensible to turn the butter-bowl 
the other side up to hold them. 

Owen Seaman calls the English 
**the misunderstood people," but how 
can one understand those who put 
fly-nets on the tops of their cabs in- 
stead of on their horses, and wear 
peaches on their heads? 

As difficult to understand as their 



2 1 2 Ube Bmil^ Bmmtns papers 

own handwriting (and more than that 
cannot be said!), after the solution 
is puzzled out the Londoners are 
the most delightful people in the 
world. 

But you must accept the solution, 
and take them at their own valuation; 
for they are unadaptable, and very 
sure of themselves. 

Now, Piccadilly is not like this. It 
is smiling, affable, charming, and very 
yielding and adaptable. It will re- 
spond to any of your moods and will 
give you an atmosphere of any sort 
you desire. On one side, as you walk 
along, are houses, more or less lately 
ducal, but all of a greatly w^orth-while 
air. Citified, indeed, with a wealthy 
width of stone pavement, and a noble 
height of stone frontage. 

On the other side is Green Park, 



IpiccaMll^ Circus anb its Environs 213 

with its shining, softly-waving trees, 
its birds, and its grass. 

But, passing the Hotel Ritz, both 
sides suddenly give way to shops and 
restaurants which rank among the 
most pretentious in all the world. 

Many of the tradesmen are "pur- 
veyors to the King," which magic 
phrase adds a charm to the humblest 
sorts of wares. 

The book shops and the fruiterers* 
shops are, to me, most enticing of all. 
It is a delight to make inquiries con- 
cerning a book that is, perhaps, not 
very well known, and, instead of the 
blank ignorance or the substitutive 
impulse often found in American book- 
shop clerks, to receive an intelhgent 
opinion, quickly backed, if necessary, 
by intelligent reference to tabulated 
facts. 



214 XTbe Bmtli? lEmmins papers 

The unostentatious, yet almost in- 
variably trustworthy, knowledge of 
London booksellers is a thing to be 
sighed for in our own country. Not 
even in Boston (outside of the Athe- 
naeum) is one sure of receiving book- 
ish information when desired. But in 
London the bookseller takes a per- 
sonal interest in your wants, and 
feels a personal pride in being able 
to gratify them. 

And the heaps of second-hand books 
are mines of joy. 

Among them you may find, as I 
did, real treasures at the price of trash. 

I chanced upon an early edition of 
Byron's poems — four little volumes, 
bound in soft, shiny green, with ex- 
quisite hand-tooling, and containing 
steel engraved book plates of old, 
scrolled design, which bore the name 



IpiccaMll^ Circus anb its Environs 215 



of somebody Gordon, whom I chose 
to imagine a near and dear relative 
of the late George Noel. 




Among them you may rind . . . 
treasures at the price of trash. 



real 



Also, I found a paper-covered copy 
of an Indian edition of Kipling's early 
tales, and many such pleasant wares. 

The fruit shops, too, have treasures 



2 1 6 Zbc Bmilp lEmmtns papers 

both new and second-hand. This 
seemed strange to me, at first, and I 
learned of it by hearing a fellow- 
customer ask to hire a few pines. 

After her departure I inquired of 
the shopman the meaning of it all. 

He obligingly told me that many 
of his finest specimens of pineapples, 
canteloupes, Hamburg grapes, and 
other spectacular fruits, could be rented 
out for banquets night after night, 
with but slight wear and tear on their 
beauty and bloom. One enormous 
bunch of black grapes, as perfect as 
the colour studies of fruit that used 
to appear as supplements to the Art 
Amateur, he caressed fondly, as he 
told me it had been rented out for the 
last nine nights, and was yet good 
for another week's work. 

I then remembered the architectural 



plccabtll^ CtrcuB anb its ]En\>iton0 217 

triumphs of fruits that had graced 
many of the dimier tables I had smiled 




**He told me it had been rented out for the last nine 
nights." 

at, and I marvelled afresh at the En- 
glish thrift. 

All shops, streets, theatres, and 



2 1 8 XTbe Bmtlp Bmmtns papers 

traffic merge and congest in a perfect 
orgy of noise, motion, and color at 
Piccadilly Circus. 

The first humorous story I heard in 
London was of the man who, re- 
turning from a festal ftmction, in- 
quired of the policeman, ''Is this 
Piccadilly Circus, .or is it Tuesday?" 
That story seems to me the epitome 
of London humor, and also a complete 
description of Piccadilly Circus. 

The first few times I visited it I 
found it bewildering, but after I had 
learned to look upon it as a local 
habitation and a name, I learned to 
love it. 

By day or by night, it is a great, 
crazy, beautiful whirl. Everybody in 
it is trying to get out of it, and every- 
body out is trying to get in. This 
causes a merry game of odds, and the 



I 



IPtccaMllp Circus anb its lEnvlrons 219 

elegant policemen send glances of mild 
reproof after the newsboys who hurtle 
through the crowd, yelling *' Dily Mile !" 

The rush of traffic here is considered 
a sure road to battle, murder, or 
sudden death, and the Londoner who 
crosses Piccadilly Circus rarely ex- 
pects to get through alive. 

But to me London traffic seems 
child's play compared to ours in New 
York. I sauntered safely through 
Piccadilly Circus, without one tenth 
part of the trepidation that always 
seizes me when I try to scurry across 
Broadway. The lumbering 'buses have 
no such desire to run over people, as 
that which burns in the hearts of our 
trolley-cars. The pedestrians are too 
deliberate of speed, and the traffic too 
gentle of motion, to inspire fear of 
jostlement. 



2 20 Ubc iBmil^ Bmmtns papers 

Dawdling along, I paused to look 
'in at Swan and Edgar's windows. 
Rather, I attempted to look in; for, 
with a peculiar sort of short-sighted- 
ness, these drapers choose to be- 
plaster their window panes with large 
posters which comment favorably upon 
the wares that are presumably behind 
them, but which cannot be seen by 
peeping through the small spaces left 
between the posters. 

Then across to the Criterion for tea. 
All of the great restaurants present 
a gay scene at tea hour, and the Cri- 
terion, with its ''decorative painting 
by eminent artists," and its crowds 
of guests both eminent and decorative 
is among the ga37est. 

But it is a gayety of correct and 
subdued tone. The ladies, in their 
flashing finery of raiment, are of a 



IpiccaMll^ Circus anb its Bnvirons 221 

cool, reserved deportment, and the 
men drink their tea and munch sweet 
cakes with a gravity born of the 
seriousness of the occasion. 

If one notices any conspicuous ac- 
tion or effect in a London restaurant, 
one may be sure it is perpetrated 
by a stranger, — ^probably a visiting 
American. 

I recently saw in one of our finest 
Fifth Avenue restaurants a most at- 
tractive young woman, who came in 
accompanied by a well-set-up, and 
moreover an exceedingly sensible look- 
ing, young man. 

With absolute savoir faire, and no 
trace of self-consciousness, the girl 
carried in her arm a large brown 
"Teddy bear." 

The couple sat at a table and ordered 
some luncheon, and the bear was also 



222 



Ube }£mtl^ Bmmtns ipapers 



given a seat, a napkin was tucked about 
his neck, and a plate placed before him. 
The girl's face was sweet and refined; 
the man's face was intelligent and 




The couple sat at a table and ordered some luncheon. 

dignified, and the bear's face was coy 
and alluring. There was no attempt 
to attract attention, and, luncheon 
over, the young woman, who was 



IptccaMlli^ Circus anb its Bnvtrons 223 

at least twenty years old, tucked her 
pet under her arm, and they walked 
calmly out. 

But such things are not done in 
London restaurants. And yet, these 
also have their peculiarities. At one 
small, but very desirable, restaurant 
in Old Compton Street it is the custom 
to steal the saltspoons as souvenirs. 
Not to possess one or more of these 
tiny pewter affairs, which are shaped 
like coal-shovels, is to be benighted 
indeed. So I stole one. 

After my tea, I would, perhaps, trail 
along toward Trafalgar Square, by 
way of Regent Street and Pall Mall. 
After a long look at the black and 
white grayness of the National Gallery, 
I would slowly motint its steps, and 
from there take a long look at the 
wonderful fagade of St. Martin's-in- 



224 Ube lEmil^ Bmmins iPapers 

the-Field. Trafalgar Square is full 
of out-of-door delights, but if the mood 
served I would go into the National 
Gallery, and walk delicately, like Agag, 
among the pictures. I went always 
alone, for I did not care to look at 
certain pictures which I owned (by 
right of adoption of them into my 
London), in danger of hearing a com- 
panion say, '' Note the delicate pre- 
cision of the flesh tones, " or, *' Observe 
the gradations of aerial perspective." 
Nor did I want a ''Hand-book," 
that would assert, ''Without a pro- 
longed examination of this picture 
it is impossible to form an idea of 
the art with which it has been 
executed." 

Unhampered by mortal suggestion, 
I paused before the pictures that 
belonged to me, prolonging my ex- 



ptccaMll^ Circus anb its Buptrons 225 

animation or not, as I chose, and for 
my own reasons. 

Some pictures I should have loved, 
but for an ineradicable memory of 
their narrowly black-framed repro- 
ductions that crowd the wall spaces 
of friends at home, who "just love 
Art." 

Other pictures I might have ap- 
propriated, but that a prolonged ex- 
amination of them was impossible b}^ 
reason of the massing in front of them 
of people who go out by the day 
sight-seeing. 

And so I took my own where I 
found it, and happily wandered by 
A man with Fair Hair or Clouds at Twi- 
light in a very bliss of art ignorance. 

Then out-of-door London would call 
me again, and back I would go to 
Trafalgar Square, one of the lightest, 

IS 



226 XTbe lEmilv lEmmtns papers 

brightest-colored bits of all England. 
From the asphalt to the welkin, from 
the Column to the Church, from the 
National Gallery to Morley's Hotel, 
are the most beautiful blues, and 
greens, and whites, and reds, and 
grays that can be supplied by the 
combined efforts of Nature, Time, and 
modern pigments. A sudden impulse, 
perhaps, would make me think that 
I had immediate need of the Elgin 
Marbles, and, with a farewell nod to 
the northeast lion (which is my fa- 
vorite of the four), I would jump 
into a hansom and jog over to the 
British Museum. But often the ap- 
proach was so clogged by pompous 
and overbearing pigeons that I would 
make no attempt to enter. Instead, 
I would find another hansom, and take 
a long ride over to the Tate Gallery. 



IptccaMllp Circus ant) its Bnvirons 227 



As I bounced happily along, I would 
note many landmarks of historic in- 
terest. Some of these were real, and 
others made up by myself on the 




tfi^iPt^^ 



The approach was so clog8:ed by pompous and overbearing 
pigeons, 

spur of the moment, to fit a passing 
thought. 

For, if I saw an old building of pic- 
turesque interest, I could make my- 



2 28 Ube Bmtl^ Bmmtns papers 

self more decently emotional toward 
the antiquity of it by asstiring myself 
that that was where Sterne died, or 
where Pepys "made mighty merry.'* 

And, after all, facts are of little im- 
portance compared with ''those things 
which really are — ^the eternal inner 
world of the imagination." 

It was from the outlook of a hansom 
cab that I could get some of the best 
views of my London. Every turn would 
bring new sorts of motion, sound, 
and color. And, birdseyed thus, it 
was all so beautiful that I wondered 
what Shelley meant by saying ''Hell 
is a city very much like London," 
— ^if, indeed, he did say it. 

Once in the Tate Gallery, I would 
fall afresh under the spell of the lonely 
wistfulness of G. F. Watts' Minotaur. 

Then I would go to gaze long on 



ptccaMU^ Circus ant) Its lEnvirons 229 



Whistler's wonderful notion of Bat- 
tersea Bridge on a blue night, and 
then betake myself to the Turner 
collection. 

Here I could spend hours, flounder- 
ing in unintelligent delight among the 
pictures, sensitive to each apotheosis 
of color and beauty, and not caring 
whether its title might be Waves 
Breaking on a Flat Beach, or River 
Scene with Cattle. 

But too much Turner was apt to go 
to my head, and just in time I would 
tear myself away, hop into a hansom, 
and make for the Wallace Collection 
to be brought back to a sense of human 
reality by a short interview with the 
Laughing Cavalier, 

What a city it is, where cabs and 
picture-galleries are within the reach 
of all who desire them! 




The appetite for the social life of 

London grows with what it feeds on. 

Although at first indisposed to be 

lured into the Social Vortex, I found 

it possessed a centripetal force which 

drew me steadily toward its whizzing 

centre. 

Nor was it long before I became as 
230 



Ube 6ame of Going ®n 231 

avid as any Londoner to pursue the 
bewildering course known as ''going 
on." 

There is a cumulative delight in 
whisking from Tea to Tea, and no two 
teas are ever alike. 

It pleased me greatly to classify 
and note the difference in London 
Teas. 

In New York all Teas are alike in 
quality — the only difference being in 
quantity. But in London one Tea 
differeth from another, not only in 
glory, but in size, shape, and color. 

Yet all are enjoyable to one who 
understands going on. If the Tea 
be of the Glacial Period, there is no 
occasion to exert your entertaining 
powers. Simply assume an expres- 
sion of bored superiority, and move 
about with a few murmured, inco- 



232 iTbe lEmil^ Bmmins papers 

herent, and not necessarily rational 
words. 

There is a very amusing story, which 
I used to think an impossible exag- 
geration, but which I now believe 
to be true. 

Thus runs the tale: A guest at an 
afternoon tea, when spoken to by any 
one, invariably replied, "I was found 
dead in my bed this morning." As 
the responses to this were always, 
"Really?" or "Charmed, I'm sure," 
or "Only fancy!" it is safe to as- 
sume that the remark was unheard or 
unheeded. 

But this state of things is not cer- 
tainly unpleasant, or to be condemned. 

One does not go to a Tea to improve 
one's mind, or to acquire valuable 
information. The remarks that are 
made are quite as satisfactory un- 



XTbe (Bame of Going ®n 



'33 



heard as heard. We are not pining to 
be told the state of the weather; we 
deduce our friend's good health from 




" I was found dead in my bed this 
morning." 

the fact of his presence; and it is 
therefore delightful to be left, un- 
hampered, to pursue our own thoughts, 



234 XTbe 3£mUp Bmmlns papers 

and, if so minded, to make to ourselves 
our own analytic observations on the 
scene before us. 

Again, if the Tea be of the Re- 
sponsive Variety, and you are sup- 
posed to chat and be chatted to, then 
is joy indeed in store for you — for 
when Londoners , do talk, they talk 
wonderfully well. 

I went one afternoon to a Tea given 
for me by a well-known London nov- 
elist. The host, beside being an Eng- 
lishman of the most charming type, 
and a clever writer, was of a genial, 
happy nature, w^hich seemed to imbue 
the whole affair with a cosy gayety. 

Though not a large Tea, many 
literary celebrities were present, and 
each gave willingly of his best men- 
tality to grace the occasion. 

Now, nothing is more truly de- 



XTbe Game of (Botng ®n 235 

lightful than the informal chatter 
of good-natured, quick-witted literary 
people. Their true sense of values, 
their quick sense of humor, their 
receptiveness, their responsiveness, and 
their instantaneous perception, com- 
bine to bring forth conversation like 
the words of which Beaumont wrote: 

So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 

As if that every one from whom they came 

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 

And had resolved to live a fool the rest 

Of his dull life . . . Wit that might warrant 

be 
For the whole city to talk foolishly 
Till that were cancelled. 

Nor are Teas of this sort rare or 
exceptional. 

Given the entrde to London's lit- 
erary circles, occasions abound for 
meeting with these companions who 



236 Ube 2£mil^ Bmmins papers 

do converse and waste the time 
together. 

To my great regret, this is not to 
be said of America. A Literary Tea 
in New York means a lot of people, 
some, perhaps, bookishly incHned, in- 
vited to meet a Celebrity of Letters. 

The Celebrity comes late, sometimes 
not at all, and he or she is often en- 
veloped in a sort of belhgerent shyness 
which does not make for coherent 
conversation of any sort. Moreover, 
Americans do not know how to give 
a Tea. We are learning, but we 
conduct our Teas in an amateurish, 
self-conscious way, and with a brave 
endurance born of our national do-or- 
die principles. 

But to return .to my going ons 
(which must by no means be con- 
founded with goings-on). 



XTbe (Bame of (Being ®n 237 

From my Literary Tea, I went to a 
Musical Tea. This is distinctly a Lon- 
don function, and the music, while of 
the best, acts as a soaking wet Oster- 
moor laid on the feebly-burning vi- 
vacity of the occasion. The young 
girl sings, the long-haired gentleman 
plays a violin, the lady in the Greek 
gown plays the harp, and the guests 
arrive continuously, and escape as 
soon as possible. 

But, like Kipling's lovable tramp, 
I ''liked it all," and stood tranquilly 
holding my teacup, while I stud- 
ied the Tussaud effects all about 
me. 

Then, as it was Fourth of July, I 
betook myself to the reception at 
Dorchester House. 

This is a most admirable institution. 
I mean the reception, not the house. 



238 TLbc lEmil^ Bmmtns papers 

though the statement really applies 
to both. 

But it is a fine thing to celebrate 
our Independence Day in London. 
There is an incongruity about it that 
lends an added charm to what is in 
itself a stupendously beautiful affair. 

Dorchester House, one of the finest 
residences in London, is now the home 
of our own ambassador, and is thrown 
open for a great reception on the af- 
ternoon of every Fourth of July. 

As my hansom took its place in the 
long line of waiting carriages I glanced 
up at the noble old stone mansion, and 
was thrilled with a new sort of pa- 
triotism when I saw our own Stars and 
Stripes wave grandly out against the 
blue English sky. Our flag at home 
is a blessed, matter-of-fact affair; but 
our flag proudly topping our Embassy 



Ube Game ot Going ®n 239 

in another land is a thrilling propo- 
sition, and I suddenly realized the 
aptness of the homely old phrase ''so 
gallantly streaming." 

Chiding myself for what I called 
purely emotional patriotism (but still 
quivering with it) , I entered the marble 
halls of Dorchester House. 

A compact, slowly-moving mass of 
people exactly fitted the broad and 
truly magnificent marble staircase. 

Adjusting myself as part of this 
ambulatory throng, we moved on, me- 
chanically, a step at a time, toward 
the top. On each landing, as the 
great staircase turned twice, were foot- 
men in pink satin and silver lace, who 
looked like valentines. They are very 
wonderful, those English footmen, and 
sometimes I think I 'd rather have one 
than a Teddv bear. 



240 Ube iEmil>s iBmmins papers 



At the top of the staircase our 
ambassador and his reception party 
greeted each guest with a cordial 
perfunctoiiness, that exactly suited 




We moved on, mechanically a step at a time. 

the occasion, and then an invisible 

force, assisted here and there by a very 

visible footman, gently urged us on. 

Although the thought seems in- 



Xlbe (Bame of (Botng ®n 241 

appropriate to the splendor of the 
occasion, yet to me the marvel of 
the affair was the ''neatness and des- 
patch" with which it was managed. 
No crowding, no herding, no audible 
directions, yet the shifting thousands 
moved as one, and the route through 
the mansion, and down another stair- 
case, was followed leisurely, by all. 
One might pause in any apartment to 
view the pictures or the decorations, 
or to chat with chance-met friends. 
By the admirable magic of the man- 
agement, this made no difference in the 
manipulation of the throng. Even- 
tually one came into a great mar- 
quee, built on terraces, and exquisitely 
draped inside with white and pale 
green. Here a sumptuous feast was 
served with the iron hand of neatness 
and despatch hidden in the velvet 

x6 



242 Ubc ]£milp lEmmlns papers 

glove of suavity and elegant leisure. 
Here, again, one met hundreds of 
acquaintances, and made hundreds 
of new ones, the orchestra played na- 
tional airs under two flags, and the 
scene was one of the brightest phases 
of kaleidoscopic London. 

Then on, out into the great garden, 
full of delightful walks, seats, flowers, 
music, and rainbow-garbed humanity. 
More meetings of friends and stran- 
gers; more invitations for future going 
on ; more introductions to kindly celeb- 
rities; more pleasant exchange of in- 
ternational compliment, and, above it 
all, the Stars and Stripes waving over 
Dorchester House! 

From here I tore myself away to 
keep an engagement to Tea on the 
Terrace of the House of Commons. 

This invitation had greatly pleased 



Ube (Bame of (Botna ®n 243 



me, as it is esteemed a very worth- 
while experience, and, further, I was 
very fond of the genial M. P. and of 
his charming wife who had invited 
me. A bit belated, I reached the 
Lobby, where I was to meet my host, 
several minutes after the appointed 
time. 

Unappalled by this disaster, because 
of my ignorance of its magnitude, I 
asked an official to conduct me to Mr. 
Member of Parliament. 

" Impossible, " he replied, "Mr. Mem- 
ber has already gone to the Terrace, 
accompanied by his guests." 

''Yes," said I, still not understand- 
ing; ''I am one of his guests. Please 
show me the way to the Terrace." 

He looked at me pityingly. 

"I 'm sorry, madame; but it is im- 
possible for you to join them now. 



244 'Q^be jEmll^ lEmmtns papers 

No one may go there unless accom- 
panied by a Member, and the Member 
you mention may not be sent for." 
This seemed ludicrous, but so fi- 




So final was his manner that I became 
frightened. 

nal was his manner, that I became 
frightened lest I had really lost my 
entertainment. 



Ube Game of (Being ®n 245 

Whether my look of utter despair 
appealed to his better nature, or 
whether he feared I was about to 
burst into tears, I don't know, — 
but I could see that he began to 
waver a little. 

I thought of bribery and corruption, 
and wondered if so austere an in- 
dividual ought to be approached along 
those lines. I remembered that an 
Englishman had spoken to me thus: 

" I don't know of anybody in Lon- 
don who would refuse a fee, except a 
club servant or the King, and," he 
added reflectively, ''I 've never tried 
the King — personally." 

Assisted by this knowledge, I some- 
how found myself being led down 
dark and devious staircases which 
gave suddenly out upon the broad, 
light Terrace. My guide then dis- 



246 Ube ]£mtl^ lEmmins iPapets 

appeared like an Arab, and I happily 
sauntered along in search of Mr. and 
Mrs. M. P. 

The scene was unique. The long 
Terrace, looking out upon the Thames 
at the very point of which Words- 
worth wrote, 

Earth has not anything to show more fair, 
was filled with tea tables, at each of 
which sat a group of prominent London 
tea-drinkers and their friends. The 
background, the Perpendicular archi- 
tecture of Parliament House, is crum- 
bling in places, and I looked quickly 
away, with a feeling of apology for 
having viewed it so closely as to see 
its slight defects. 

My host greeted me with an air of 
unbounded amazement. 

''But how did you get down here?" 
he exclaimed. 



Ube Game of GoiwQ On 247 



*' American enterprise," I responded, 
but I learned that it had been an ex- 
traordinary and reprehensible act on the 




My host greeted me with an air of unbounded 
amazement. 

part of the official who had guided me. 
I was sorry to learn this, but glad 
that I had persevered to success. 



248 Ube ]£milp Bmmins papers 

Twelve people were at table, and 
that Tea is among my fairest London 
recollections. 

The very atmosphere of the Terrace 
is Parliamentarian, though, of course, 
not in a literal sense, and vague, un- 
meaning visions of woolsack and wig 
seem to mingle with the visible re- 
alities. On the one side the Thames, 
trembling with traffic; on the other 
the silent altitude of stone, that seems 
to grow hospitable and confidential 
as you sit longer at its feet. And 
between these, the tea-table, with its 
merry group, laughing at each oth- 
er's jests, and carelessly, throwing 
about those precious invitations which 
keep one going on. 

My right-hand neighbor proved to 
be a large-minded editor of delightful 
personality. 



Ube Game ot Oolno On 249 

We talked of books, and he said 
quite casually: "Yes, I fancy Henry 
James's works. And, moreover, he 's 
a charming man, personally. Would 
you care to go motoring down to Rye 
to-morrow, and spend the day at his 
place?" 

While almost simultaneously on my 
other side a lady was saying, ''Yes, 
indeed, I '11 be glad to send you 
a card to the Annual Dinner of 
the Women Authors of Great 
Britain." 

Truly, hospitality is the keynote 
of the Leaders of London Society. 
An apparent lack of warmth may 
sometimes be noticeable in their man- 
ner, but they deal out delightful in- 
vitations with a free and w^illing hand, 
the acceptance of which keeps one 
forever going on. 



250 XTbe lEmil^ lEmmine papers 

And, after all, one is too prone to 
generalize. 

Hostesses are human beings, and, 
therefore, there are no two alike. 

One may classify, — ^and the types 
fall easily into classes, — but one may 
not make sweeping assertions. And, 
too, in society, which the world over 
is a sham and purveyor of shams, 
are kind hearts always more than 
coronets? 

And when one is gayly, perhaps 
flippantly, going on, one wants to see 
all sorts, and I w^ent from my Terrace 
Tea to a private view of some paintings. 

Then, after suitable robing, to a 
dinner; then to the opera, where the 
delicious incongruity of Madame 
Butterfly set to Italian grand opera 
music, was heightened by the dear 
baby who sat flat on the stage and 



Ubc 6ame of OoirxQ On 251 

waved the American flag into the very 
faces of the boxes full of English 
royalty. 

And so, as Pepys would say, home, 
and to bed, feeling that there was 
certainly a fascinating exhilaration in 
London's game of Going On. 



xm 

Jl Trench iT^zJc^Tnd 




In London I met an American 
friend, a busy New York man of 
letters. 

*'I come to London every season," 

said he, **for six week-ends. These 

are spent at country-houses, and are 

planned for a long time ahead." 

At first, I wondered what he did 
252 



H ffrencb Meek*36n5 253 

between the week-ends, but I soon 
learned that what with getting to and 
from one country-place, and arranging 
to go to and from another, the in- 
significant Wednesday or Thursday 
in between is totally lost sight of. 

Distance to a week-end Mecca is 
counted as nothing; and so, when I 
was invited to a house-party at a 
villa some twelve miles out of Paris, I 
prepared to go as casually as if my 
destination were within the Dominions 
of the Unsetting Sun. 

There seemed to be several routes 
from London to Paris, and each was 
recommended to me as "the only 
possible way"; but I decided upon 
the Dover-Calais route, and left Vic- 
toria station on the special train. 

A friend who came to ''see me off" 
insisted on providing me with a put-up 



254 '^hc iBmil^ lEmmtns papers 

luncheon, saying the only preventive 
of Channel bothers was to take a bite 
before embarking. 

So persistent was he, that I ac- 
cepted his offer to put an end to his 
argument, and waited in my com- 
partment while he ran for the **bite. " 

He returned, followed by a porter, 
who wheeled on a truck a "put- 
up luncheon"! It was in a hamper, 
shaped like a large - sized wicker 
suit-case. This stupendous affair was 
pushed under the seat, and before I 
had time to remonstrate, my train 
started. 

Impelled alike by hunger and cu- 
riosity, I finally opened the gigantic 
lunch-basket. Inside were carefully 
planned compartments containing sev- 
eral courses of a delicious cold luncheon. 
Ample provision of serviettes and oiled 



H jf rencb Meel?«'l£nb 



255 



paper protected the viands from pos- 
sible dust or cinders, and the array 
of fiat silver was bewildering. Plates 
and cups fitted into their niches, and 




I finally opened this gigantic lunch basket. 

the whole collection was of a com- 
pleteness beyond compare. This is as 
yet an untried field for American 
enterprise, but I suppose it will come. 



256 trbe iBmil^ iBmmins Kbapers 

The disposition of the emptied ham- 
per was simply to restore it to its 
place under the seat, and leave it 
there. Apparently it had the instincts 
of a homing pigeon. 

Leaving Dover was like backing 
away from a picture post-card. I 
have sometimes thought lithographed 
colors unnaturally bright, but the 
green and white and blue of re- 
ceding Dover on a sunshiny day 
make aniline dyes seem dull by 
comparison. 

The crossing on the Channel steamer 
was delightful, and I now know the 
dreadful tales I have heard of this 
experience to be mere peevish ma- 
lignity. I sat on the deck of the 
dancing boat, and when the spray grew 
mischievous, kind-hearted attendants 
wrapped me in tarpaulin mackin- 



H ffrencb Meef^^Bnt) 257 



toshes, or whatever may be the French 
for their queer raincoats. 

I ruined my hat and feathers, but, 
in the exhilaration of that mad 
dash through the tumbhng, rioting 
sea, who could think of personal 
economy? 

All too soon we reached Calais, and 
here, again, a living, breathing picture 
confronted me. Unlike Dover, the 
harbor at Calais is like an exquisite 
aquarelle. The high lights and half- 
tones are marvellous, and the com- 
position is a masterpiece. But (and 
here I made my two rules that should 
be invariably observed by the travel- 
ler from London to Paris) there is not 
a more fearful wild-fowl living than 
your French customs inspector. 

Troubles of all sorts cropped up, and 
the porters and officials talked such 



258 Ube Bmily lEmmtns papers 

strange French that they could n't 
understand mine! 

But the troubles were all because 
of my luggage, which they divided 
into two classes. And hence my two 
rules : 

(i) When crossing the English Chan- 
nel, on no account take with you any 
luggage except hand -luggage. 

(2) On no account take any hand- 
luggage. 

These rules, carefully observed, will 
insure a happy, peaceful journey, for 
the accommodations for personal com- 
fort are admirable. 

The railroad train from Calais to 
Paris is a clean marvel of light gray 
upholstery, and white antimacassars 
sized like a pillow-sham. The cars 
are exceedingly comfortable and the 
whole ride a delight. 



H fvcncb Wiccli^lBn^ 259 

I reached the Gare du Nord about 
seven o'clock in the evening, and, after 
a maddening experience with crim- 
inally imperturbable officials, I took 
a cab to my hotel. 

Accustomed, all my life, to the few 
scattering cabs of New York City, I 
had thought London possessed a great 
many cabs ; but Paris contains as many 
as London and New York put together. 
The French capital is paved with cabs, 
and of such a cheapness of fare that I 
soon discovered it was more economical 
to stay in them than to get out. 

I well knew I must fight against the 
insistence of ''first impressions"; but 
after all it was Paris, and I had never 
been there before, and the ride from 
the station to the Place Vendome 
might therefore be allowed to thrill 
me a little. 



26o Ube ]6mllp lemmlns ipapers 

Some of the streets seemed rather 
horrid, but after we swung into the 
Boulevard and came at last to the 
Vendome Column, with a pale little 
French moon just appearing above 
it, I was ready to admit that Paris 
might go to my head, even as London 
went to my heart. 

My chosen hotel, The Ritz, was once 
the old palace of the Castiglione, and 
still retains much of the palatial 
manner. 

Exquisite in the modernness of its 
appointments, it possesses an atmos- 
phere of historic France, and the 
combination comes perilously near 
perfection. The urbane proprietor, who 
looked like the hero of a French play, 
personally conducted me to my . rooms 
and was solicitous for my welfare in 
the best of English. From my win- 



H jf rencb meeft^JEnb 



261 



dows I could see al fresco diners in a 
o-arden which looked like Marie An- 
toinette's idea of Luna Park. 

Noble old trees rose as high as the 




The urbane proprietor . . . personally 
conducted me to my rooms. 

house, and from their branches hung 
great globes of vari-colored electric 
light. Statues guarded a fountain at 
one end, flower-beds surrounded the 



262 Ube ]£mtl^ Bmmtns papers 

place, and at many tables gay hu- 
manity was toying with chef d'ceuvres 
of French cooking. 

The scene allured me. I hastily 
donned a dinner gown, and descended 
to take my seat at an attractively- 
placed table. ' 

As I was alone, this might :jiin New 
York have seemed indiscreet; in Lon- 
don, at least undiscreet; but to Paris, 
being a guest of the liouse^ land under 
the protection of the, s^iigust and 
benignant proprietor, jt ill seemed the 
most natural proceeding in the world. 

The dinner was a dream; I mean, a 
sort of comic opera dream, where 
lights and flowers and gayety made 
a chimerical effect of happiness. 

Of course, this pause over night at 
the hotel was part of my journey to 
the week-end party. 



H ifreiicb MeeJ?*]Ent) 265 

The next day 1113^ hostess would 
send for me, but these vicissitudes of 
travel were not at all unpleasant. 

As I finished my dinner, and saun- 
tered through the delicately ornate 
salons, callers' cards were brought 
me, and I was delighted to welcome 
some English friends who were passing 
through Paris on a motor tour. 

''Come with us," they said; "our 
car is at the door, and we will go out 
and see ' Paris by night ' in our own 
way." 

Incongruous this, for Emily Emmins ! 

But my adaptability claimed me 
for its own, and, with what I fancied 
a French shrug of my shoulders, I 
mispronounced a French phrase of 
acquiescence, and declared myself ready 
to go. 

Three stalwart Englishmen, and the 



264 Ube ]£mllp Bmmins papers 



dignified wife of one of them, might 
seem a strange party with which to 
visit Montmartre by night; but it 
was an ideal way to go. In the motor- 
car we could whiz from one ridiculous 




With what I fancied a French shrug of ii.y 

shoulders I mispronounced a French 

phrase of acquiescence. 

''Cabaret Unique" to another. We 
could look in at the absurd illusions 
of "Le Ciel, " we could jeer at the 
flimsy foolishness of ''L'Enfer, " and 



H ffrencb Meek^jEnb 265 

make fun of its attractions diaboliqucs, 
yet all the time we were seeing the 
heart of Parisian Folly, and a very 
gay, good-humored, harmless little 
heart it is. Evil there might be, but 
none was observable, and the foolish 
young French people sat around with 
much the same air as that of young 
Americans at Coney Island. 

The 'Xabaret du Neant" is sup- 
posed to be a fearsome place, where 
guests sit around coffins and see 
ghosts. But so like substantial tables 
were the coffins, and so sociable and 
human the ghosts, that awe gave place 
to amusement. 

Home we whizzed, through the 
poorly lighted streets, which are in- 
deed an anachronism in Gay Paris 
By Night. 

Next day came the great touring-car 



266 XTbe ]£mil^ Bmmtns papers 

of my week-end hostess, to take me to 
her villa, at St. Germain-en-Laye. 

The villa being a fascinating old 
French mansion, self -furnished, the 
house party being composed of most 
delightful people, the host and hostess 
past grand masters in the art of enter- 
taining, the visit was, as might have 
been expected, merely a kaleidoscope 
of week-end delights. 

One absorbing entertainment fol- 
lowed another, but perhaps the picture 
that remains most clearly in my mem- 
ory is the dinner on the terrace. A 
French country-house terrace is so 
much more frivolous than an English 
one. The outlook, over a formal gar- 
den, of modified formality; the splash- 
ing little fountains here and there; 
the decorated table on the decorated 
terrace; the shaded candles, flowers. 



H jfrencb Meel?*}£nt) 267 

and foreign service; the French moon, 
that has such a sophisticated paleness; 
the birds singing French songs in what 
are doubtless ilex trees — all go to make 
a peculiar charm that no other coun- 
try may ever hope to attain. 

The days were devoted to motor- 
ing to Versailles, Fontainebleau, and 
through Paris itself, and by this subtle 
method, one could sight-see without 
realizing it. To motor over to Chan- 
tilly, for the sole purpose of feeding 
the carp, is a different matter from 
seeing ''sights which should on no 
account be omitted"; and to go with 
one's host for a day's run among 
the tiny French villages is a personally 
conducted tour wdth the sting entirely 
extracted. 

The week-end over, I must needs 
pause a day or two in Paris, to rest 



268 XTbe jEmtl^ lEmmtns ipapers 

myself on my journey back to 
London. 

The shops offered wonderful at- 
tractions in the way of souvenirs to 
take to the dear ones at home. For 
the value of a foreign-bought "sou- 
venir" lies in the fact of its non- 
existence in American shops, and such 
are hard to find, indeed. For the 
novelty in London to-day is the ''re- 
duced goods" in the New York de- 
partment store to-morrow. 

Moreover, the shops contained fem- 
inine raiment of wonderful glory! 
Only the fear of my " first impressions" 
of our American custom-house oflficers 
prevented my realizing my wildest 
dreams of extravagance. 

Parisian clothes are marked by 
that quality which the London sales- 
people call "dynety" — ^they having 



H jf rencb Meek^iEnb 



269 



no more idea of the meaning than 
of the pronounciation of the 
word. 

But the Parisian woman, from the 
richest to the poorest, 
is first of all dainty; 
after that, correct, 
chic, modish — what 
you will. 

And the French 
money is so easy to 
compute. My sover- 
eign rule is to mul- 
tiply by two. If the 
price be in francs 
multiply by two, vshift 
a decimal point, and 
you have dollars. If 
centimes, multiply by 
two, decimal point 
again, and you have cents. 




The Parisian woman 

. . is first of 

all dainty. 



2 70 Ube iBmtl^ lEmmtns iDapers 

This simple rule made Paris shop- 
ping easy. 

I had determined, as this time 
Paris was a means and not an end, 
being merely incidental to my week- 
end trip, I would not go into the 
galleries, and perhaps become undiily 
attached to something I might find 
there. 

A casual visit to the Louvre let me 
go through several rooms of pictures 
and statues unmoved, when suddenly 
I met my Waterloo. 

All unexpectedly I came upon the 
Venus of Milo, It was a revelation. 
The casts and photographs I had 
hitherto seen of it I now discovered 
to be no more like the original statue 
than the moon is Hke the sun. 

The form, perhaps, is not so inad- 
equately represented, but the face, as 



H ff rencb Meek^iEnb 2 7 1 

shown in cast or picture, is a sadly 
futile attempt at imitation. 

The real Venus has the most mar- 
vellous face in the world. There is an 
ineffable beauty of feature, and an 
exquisite repose of expression, that 
betokens no one affection, but the 
glorification of all that is great and 
beautiful. 

But the fascination is unexplainable. 
I only know that into that wonderful 
face I could gaze for hours; but never 
again do I want to see a reproduction 
of it, of any sort. 

In the Louvre, too, I found the 
Mona Lisa. Here again I had been 
misled by photographs and ''art 
prints," and was all unprepared for 
the witchery of that baffling, be- 
wildering smile. By a queer corre- 
lation of ideas, my mind reverted to 



272 Ube Emilp Bmmtns papers 

the Laughing Cavalier, and I won- 
dered if these two were smiling at the 
same thought. 

Undesirous of seeing more at this 
time, I returned to my open, victoria- 
like cab. Those foolish Paris cabs ! They 
seem so exactly like the vehicle in 
which Bella Wilfer elegantly sat, when 
she begged her parent, " Loll, ma, loll! " 

But they are fine to see out of, and 
a city like Paris, made for show, should 
have cabs of wide outlook. 

Paris is an achievement. Its co- 
herent, consequent civic beauty ranks 
it among the seven beauties of the 
world. It is as systematically and 
methodically laid out as Philadelphia 
— ^but with a difference! 

It is discreet and tactful, and ever 
puts its best foot foremost, the other 
probably being down at heel. 



H ffrencb Wiccli^iEnb 273 

It is trim and tripping, where Lon- 
don is solidly lumbering, — ^but, give 
me London! 

Paris is adorable; London is lov- 
able. Paris is bewitching; London is 
satisfying. 

Paris is to London as lime-light 
unto sunlight, and as absinthe unto 
wine. But as the very essence of 
Paris, is ephemeral, so the nature of 
London makes for perpetuity; and 
London is, of all things, a place to go 
back to. 

x8 



^'A collection of wholesome and 
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The FolK Afield 

By 

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Author of 
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G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

Ne-w YorK London 



A New Booh hy the Author of '^ Lavender 
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LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN 

By MYRTLE REED 

Author of "A 5pinner in the Sun," "The Master's Violin," etc. 



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" A Delightful and Dramatic Story " 

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' Q. P. Putnam's Sons 

New York London 



NOV 22 190/ 



